#under the rocket's glow | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sixeyesonathiel · 3 months ago

Text

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.

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nanamisgirly · 17 days ago

Text

nanami never liked staying at work late, but lately, he liked it even less—not because of the hours, but because of her words that still echoed in his head. “come home not too late, papa…and safe. please?”

so by 6:37pm, his keys clicked in the door, his tie already half-loosened and shoulder relaxing. the house was glowing in soft golden lights, the faint scent of dinner and lavender filling the air. he could hear little giggles and your voice, soft and lilting.

“papaaaa!!” came a screech. a flash of pink brust around the corner—the smaller of the twins, your daughter, rocketed toward him like a missile of love, her curls bouncing with every step. nanami dropped to one knee just in time, catching her in strong arms.

“you're late” she accused, nose scrunching.

“only by seven minutes, princess.”

“still late,” she buries her face in the crook of his neck, pretending to pout—arms wrapping around him in a tight clingy hug.

“then i guess i have to make it up to you.” he smooths her wild hair with one hand, the other steadying her back. “where's mum?”

“she's in our room,” she mumbled into his shirt. “getting our clothes for bath time.”

nanami kissed the top of her head before standing up with her still clinging to him like a sleepy koala. “let's go, then.”

he peeked into the twin's room to find you kneeling by the dresser, laying out a tiny pair of pajamas with sleepy clouds printed on them. your back was turned, humming softly, and when you heard the shuffle behind you-

“you made it.”

“right on time,” he murmured a soft smile perking his lips as he let your daughter slide down to the carpet. she immediately started trying to pick out different socks than the ones you laid out. “let me help.”

soon, it became the usual dance—familiar, wordless teamwork.

nanami filled the tub, rolling his sleeves as he tested the water. your twins were surrounded by bath toys. your daughter kept shrieking over shampoo in her eyes even when it wasn't. meanwhile, your son, sat like a tiny monk at the other end of the tub, back straight, reading the back of the conditioner bottle as if studying. his fine blonde hair was slicked to his forehead, and he blinked up seriously at his dad.

“did you know this coconut oil has vitamin E?”

nanami nodded gravely. “sounds powerful.”

“i think it is.” he replies just as gravely, tiny brows furrowing.

it took an hour to get them all clean, between plays and rubbing their bodies—watering your clothes and nanami ones. their cheeks were pink, their blonde lashes wet and clumped, and when they looked at the two of you, the way their eyes lit up—one pair looking exactly like yours, the other exactly like nanami—you swear you fall in love all over again.

you wrapped both of them in towels shaped like animals—a fox for your daughter, a bear for your son—and carried one under each arm like squishy luggage to the bedroom.

and it was friday!! one of the two nights your kids are allowed to sleep in your king-sized bed. your daughter immediately jumped face-first onto the mattress, laughing as she crawled to her usual corner. nanami followed close behind, fingers ready to tickle her sides.

“noooo someone help—!”

“i'll save you!” your son said suddenly, serious as ever. he climbed up behind nanami with quiet determination, arms circling his dad's head like a little warrior. grip firm—but far too small to make any real difference against the solid strength of his father.

still, nanami plays along, “a surprise attack!”

your daughter squealed in delight, wiggling away as nanami collapsed into the pillows, groaning in fake defeat. “too strong…i've been defeated by my own children,” he said, his voice muffled into the pillows.

“you're not allowed to hurt my sister,” your son declared calmly, sitting up proudly on nanami's back like a victorious knight. “she's a princess.” your daughter blinked up at him from her spot “…i'm not that much of a princess,” she mumbled—but the tiny dimples pulling at her cheeks gave her away.

you stood in the doorway, freshly out of the shower, hair damp and arms folded as you leaned on the frame—heart so full it ached a little..

“alright, heroes," you called, "time to settle.” nanami propped himself up on his elbows, glancing at you. his blonde hair was messy, cheeks faintly pink from the wrestling, and yet his eyes locked onto yours with that look—that look, he only ever gave to you. glaring, yes, but full of quiet love, admiration, and maybe just a little longing.

“ewww…papa, stop that. .” your daughter said, catching the shift in his gaze. nanami chuckled at the comment, dimples peeking on his cheeks—the exact same one of your daughter. “sorry, princess. i forgot i'm not allowed to look at my wife.”

you laughed under your breath, crossing the room and climbing into the bed, slipping under the covers beside nanami. he instinctively shifted closer, and your son already pressed against your other side.

nanami's arm rested across your waist lazily, the little twins curled up in their usual places. and for a few quiet minutes, the room was filled only with soft breathing and the rustle of pages from a bedtime book your son was reading—or pretending. he just wanted to copy his dad but will never admit it

then, with a soft sigh, nanami turned his face toward you, leaning in closer, eyes half-lidded. “mmh. just a moment,” he murmured, his voice low and sleepy, as he tried to lay his head on your chest. but before he could settle a tiny hand pushed against his forehead.

firm. determined.

nanami froze. your son, eyes still on his book, said calmly, “no.”

“no?”

“she's my mum,” your son added, now turning his head to look his father straight in the eye—honeyed eyes meeting honeyed eyes, right above your chest. without looking away, he placed his second hand beside the first and pushed, gently but decisively.

you couldn't help it—you burst out laughing, hand covering your mouth as nanami stared at your son like he'd just been betrayed by his own blood. nanami sighed, defeated again. he chose to rest his head on your shoulder instead, arm still wrapped around your waist—as close as your tiny bodyguard would allow.

and somewhere behind him, your daughter giggled sleepily. “poor papa.”

the night softened into warmth—the kind of warmth that fills every corner of your body and slows time. little limbs tangled with yours, three gentle rhythms of breath all around you. your heart impossibly full.

this… this was home. for both of you.

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abyssyby · 5 months ago

Text

sylus has twin boys and one of them is shyer than the other :< baby one takes after his smug, charming bravado— speaks with a loud playful voice, emotes like a cute little cartoon and always ready for a spotlight. baby two is quieter, just wants to be held, hides behind papa's pant leg when he's introduced to new people and buries his face in mama's neck when he's asked for his name.

sylus is gone for forever (two days) before finally coming home. your voice is hoarse of repeating "papa's not home yet, angel," to little boys who want to play on their moving, talking, loving jungle gym of a father.

baby one runs headfirst towards him to play-fight— pulling at his hair and tugging on his ears— while sylus lifts him up, tickling him and blowing raspberries into his round cheeks.

baby two waits. he toddles after sylus only once he settles on the couch and sighs the stress of the day away. with great effort, he climbs up. sylus hears the squeaking stretch of leather, then feels the familiar weight on his side— a little ball of warmth nuzzling his cheek and shoulder to his papa's torso, squeezing himself under his arm to receive an embrace.

sylus responds quietly, bringing him closer and placing a tender kiss in his messy starlight hair. baby plays with the fabric of his expensive sweater, pulling and crumpling it in his little fists, just as mesmerized by the sensation as both are by the crackling fire.

baby one— a rocket— climbs on him too.

sylus has learned more sound effects since his sons were born, beyond your own favorite "bang!" when you poke his side. baby one's little fingers dig into his father's cheeks, as he goes, "pow!"

sylus lets out an indulgent play-dead 'eugh'— then a completely involuntary 'oof' as his son plops on his stomach before he slides to the other unoccupied arm. sylus's palm hovers over his head ever so slightly, making sure he lands safely. there, he also winds down and stares at the flames.

"pa?" baby two says, lifting his head. sylus turns to him— it still astonishes him how much of you he sees in his little angel's sleepy gaze. he carries your same wide, gentle look, now blinking slowly, dreamily.

"hm?"

"home?"

sylus hums. baby feels its steady rumble beneath his fingers. "mhm."

the baby nods slowly— only now understanding the word fully. connecting the dots between when mama says he's not and when he is. this is home. this feels like home. papa is home.

to that, he murmurs a soft m'kay and nestles his head back where it was before.

and you find them bathed in firelight, their white hair turned orange in its glow. his carbon copies, little lips parted, their chubby cheeks squished against their father's warm embrace. and your darling husband, head tilted back against the headrest, arms wound protectively around his sons.

you walk around, pressing a kiss to the crease between his brows before slipping a pillow underneath the base of his head. the photo you take of them stays as sylus's lock screen— until further notice.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ more sylus thoughts ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

edit: a twin babies fic finally here! ◟(๑•͈ᴗ•͈)◞

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moonstruckme · 5 days ago

Note

Hi Mae!! I hope you’re having a lovely day!! I woke up sick and with the worst throat pain and just cold symptoms and I was wondering if I could request a self indulgent little something with yapper! reader and any of our marauders boys where reader is sick and barely has any voice left but won’t stop talking and reader doesn’t want help/takes care of herself but her man/men (?) still care for her and nurse her back to health.

again super self indulgent but your writing brings me so much comfort, so I thought I’d send it in and see if you feel inspired.

thanks for sharing your writing with us <33

Ty for requesting my love <3

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 799 words

“Smell this.” You stick a handmade bar of soap under Remus’ nose. Sirius watches as Remus inhales dutifully. “Isn’t that lovely?”

“It’s nice,” Remus agrees.

You bring it back to your own nose. It doesn’t escape Sirius’ notice that you sniff for a long time, like it takes a lot of effort to get the air in. “I feel like it reminds me of something,” you say, voice rasping on the odd word. “Like, somewhere we’ve been. Do you know?”

Sirius takes the bar of soap from you as Remus steps forward to see the label on another one.

“It’s called Lavender Daze,” he reads off.

Sirius breathes it in, and he knows instantly. “The Black Lake. That’s what it smells like.” He holds it up again for Remus’ approval. After another sniff Remus nods agreeably. “Like the Black Lake right after everything on the shore blooms, yeah?”

“Well, we have to get it.” You dig in your bag, smiling sweetly at the woman whose booth you’re at. “One of these, please.”

Sirius, obviously, pays her before you can. You roll your eyes in mild annoyance as though you hadn’t known exactly what you were agreeing to in bringing Sirius anywhere there’d be shopping.

It’s a gorgeous day for a farmer’s market. Sunny, hardly any clouds, breeze just cool enough to tickle pleasantly over your skin. Sirius tips his face up to the sky as the vendor gets you a bag, enjoying the warmth that seeps into his skin. Beside him, Remus’ mouth tugs concernedly when you have to clear your throat to say something to the woman, your voice wisping away to nearly nothing mid-sentence.

He takes you under his arm as you step away from the booth. You glow with pleasure as he kisses the top of your head. “Hi,” you say.

“Hi.” Remus’ voice is achingly fond. “Feeling alright? Ready to go home?”

You cuddle up to his side. “I’m good, but thanks.”

“Sure about that?” Sirius teases. “Because you sound like you might’ve swallowed knives, gorgeous.”

You laugh. It’s a heart-squeezing sound, lovely even when it’s hoarse. You let out a little cough at the end of it. “No, I’ve got it all figured out.”

Remus lifts an eyebrow at you, as though to say go on.

“I’m just not giving into it.” You shrug lightly. “If I let myself get sick, I’ll get sick, but if I ignore it it might go away.”

“Um.” Sirius frowns. “No, I don’t think that’s—”

“Ooh, honey!” You take off towards another stall. Remus sighs. Sirius takes his hand, squeezing, as they go after you.

“Look, it’s local,” you say, picking up a bottle to show them excitedly. “So it’s better for you than one you’d get at the store.”

Sirius hums, unwilling to be distracted. “Listen, if you—”

“It should help with your hayfever.” You’re all sweet earnestness as you look at him. It makes it very difficult to be irritated with you for not looking after yourself when you’re only trying to look after Sirius. “The pollen from local plants can help your body get used to them so you don’t react so badly. It…” You take on a strange expression. “It—”

You give up, holding your nose shut as a sneeze rockets out of you, violent, and your face does a little—it does this pinch. Remus sees it, too. “What’s wrong?” he asks, while you wipe under your nose. “It hurts?”

“A little.” You murmur sheepishly, “Excuse me.”

“Let’s get you some of the honey, too,” Remus decides.

“Hm?” You look at him, confused. “I don’t get hayfever.”

“It might still be nice to have some honey in your tea,” he says. Sirius takes the honey from you, paying for it while Remus takes your face in his hands. “Sweetheart, you really sound like it hurts to talk. It’s not going to get better because you’re trying to ignore it.”

You sniffle. Your eyes are still watery from the sneeze, which Sirius suspects stung your sinuses more than you’ve let on. “It’s not that bad,” you try.

“Don’t ever take to the stage.” Sirius kisses your head, taking your bag from you and putting the honey inside. “You’re a shit liar.”

You scoff, and Remus hums amusedly. His thumb strokes over your cheek. “You feel like you have a fever,” he notes. “Let’s go home and see if we can’t get you feeling a bit better, hm?”

“I can take care of—of myself,” you say, cut off when an unexpected cough spurts out of you.

“Yes, and you’re clearly doing a marvelous job.” Sirius slips an arm around your waist to shepherd you toward the exit. You don’t fight him on it. “Why don’t you let us give it a try anyway, just for fun?”

527 notes · View notes

writingbuckets · 6 months ago

Text

𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧-𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫

paige bueckers x reader

wc: 6.8k

synopsis: Y/N and Paige Bueckers are caught in a tense moment after Paige’s jealousy and neglect come to a head. With emotions running high, both struggle to navigate their complicated feelings, forcing them to confront the future of their relationship.

warnings: angst, jealousy, explicit sexual content, slight manipulation, possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, slight violence (physical restraint)

a/n: i present to you... jealous paige bc this is one of my favorite tropes literally ever! this was 16 pages on google docs so i apologize for that, gonna go through all my posts and add warnings to them so i shall see you later <3

You’re sprawled out on your bed, limbs heavy against the soft blanket, phone clutched in one hand. The screen casts a faint glow in the dim room, illuminating the furrow of frustration etched into your brow. Your thumb idly scrolls through your message thread with Paige—a barren wasteland of unanswered texts. Each message feels like a tiny stone dropped into the pit of your stomach, adding to the growing weight.

Monday

Hey, how’d practice go? You alive?

Wednesday

I know you’re busy, but can we talk soon? Paige?

Friday

Cool. Guess I’ll take the hint.

You sigh heavily, locking your phone and tossing it onto the bed beside you. The device bounces slightly before settling face down, but your mind refuses to let it go. A sharp buzz suddenly cuts through the silence, jolting your heart into a sprint. For a fleeting moment, hope flickers. You snatch up the phone, only for disappointment to flood in when Jasmine’s name lights up the screen instead.

You swipe to answer, switching to speaker and tossing it back on the bed. “What’s up, Jas?” you say, your tone flat and lacking its usual warmth.

“Clearly not you,” Jasmine replies, her voice teasing but tinged with concern. “You sound like someone kicked your puppy. Is this about Paige again?”

You pause, chewing on your bottom lip, the weight of your emotions threatening to spill over.

“She’s been ghosting me all week,” you finally admit, bitterness seeping into your voice like a slow drip. “I get that basketball keeps her busy, but is it really that hard to send one text? Like, ‘Hey, sorry, can’t talk right now’? That’s all I’m asking. It’s not rocket science.”

Jasmine’s incredulous tone comes through loud and clear. “Wait. She hasn’t responded at all? Not even a quick ‘Hey, I’m swamped’?”

“Not a word,” you reply, the edge in your voice sharpening. “Meanwhile, she’s out here talking about how much she likes me and how she wants to make things work. For what? So I can sit here, feeling like a damn afterthought, while she… I don’t even know what she’s doing anymore.”

“You deserve so much better,” Jasmine says firmly, her voice a grounding presence.

“Tell me about it,” you mutter, picking up your phone again despite yourself. It’s a reflex, a bad habit you can’t seem to break. You open Instagram, swiping through stories without purpose, when something stops you cold.

KK’s latest post dominates the screen. It’s a picture of the team crammed into a booth at Ted’s, smiles wide and carefree. Paige is smack in the middle, holding up Dirty Shirley, her grin so effortless it’s like she hasn’t ignored a single text in her life. She looks happy. Relaxed. Completely unbothered.

The caption reads: “Dubs only, baby! Turnt up with the squad 🏀.”

Your grip on the phone tightens as heat rises to your cheeks. Your jaw clenches involuntarily. So, she has time for this? Time to party, to hang out with her team, to go to Ted’s of all places—your spot—but can’t find two seconds to acknowledge you?

“Unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath, the words simmering with anger.

“What happened?” Jasmine’s voice snaps you back to reality.

“She’s at Ted’s,” you say through gritted teeth. “With the team. Laughing, drinking, looking like life is perfect while I’m over here wondering if she fell off the face of the Earth.”

“Oh, hell no,” Jasmine says, her indignation matching your own. “She thinks she can ignore you and get away with it? Nope. Get up, put on your hottest outfit, and remind her who the hell you are.”

You sit up, heart pounding as the idea takes root. Your glare is fixed on KK’s post, as if staring at it hard enough might erase the image entirely. Locking your phone, you toss it onto the bed before swinging your legs over the side.

“You know what?” you say, your voice steady and laced with resolve. “Maybe I will.”

The moment you’ve had enough, something shifts inside you—like a fire being reignited. The frustration that’s been simmering all evening finally boils over, and you grab your phone with newfound determination. Sitting upright on your bed, you unlock the screen, your fingers flying across the keyboard with practiced ease.

Y’all down for Ted’s tonight? Need backup.

The message is direct, no frills. This isn’t just a night out—it’s a mission.

Jasmine’s reply comes almost instantly, as if she’s been waiting for an excuse to hit the town. Say less. On my way in 20. Her energy is palpable even through a text.

Seconds later, Veronica chimes in: I’m in. Let’s cause some trouble. Her signature wink emoji follows, and you can’t help but smirk.

Finally, Serena’s response lights up your screen with a single word: Bet. Short, sweet, and packed with confidence.

With your friends locked in, you toss your phone onto the bed and head straight to your closet. It’s time to make a statement—one that’s impossible to ignore. You stand in front of your wardrobe, fingers brushing over hangers as you mentally critique each option. Too casual. Too plain. Too predictable.

After what feels like an eternity, your hand lands on the one. It’s bold, sleek, and undeniably sexy—a figure-hugging dress that accentuates all the right places and practically demands attention. You pull it off the hanger, holding it up in front of the mirror. The deep color complements your skin perfectly, and the hem does the absolute minimum in covering the bottom of your ass.

You slip into it carefully, smoothing the fabric over your body and adjusting it until it fits like a second skin. Taking a step back, you examine yourself in the mirror, tilting your head as a small smile plays on your lips. You look good. No—scratch that. You look amazing. But tonight, looking amazing isn’t enough. You want to turn heads. You want Paige to feel it.

Not done yet, you move to your vanity, flipping on the lights. Your makeup bag sits waiting, and you dive in with practiced precision. First, a flawless base, smooth and glowing, like your skin was kissed by the perfect Instagram filter. You follow with a contour that defines your features, giving you a sharp, sculpted look. Then comes the winged liner, bold and dramatic, with a flick so precise it could cut glass. Smokey eyeshadow enhances the look, making your gaze impossible to ignore, and a high-shine gloss adds the perfect finishing touch to your lips.

You lean back, giving yourself a final once-over in the mirror. Every detail is on point, down to the faint shimmer of highlighter catching the light on your cheekbones. It’s flawless, if you do say so yourself.

As you’re spritzing on your favorite perfume—a scent both intoxicating and unforgettable—your phone buzzes again. Jasmine’s text reads: Outside. Let’s do this.

You slip on your favorite pair of chunky, heeled boots, the ones that make you feel like you own every room you walk into, and grab your bag. The rhythmic click of your heels on the pavement mirrors your determination as you stride out to Jasmine’s car.

Sliding into the passenger seat, you’re met with a low whistle from Jasmine. “Damn, girl,” she says, giving you an approving once-over. “Are you trying to destroy someone tonight?”

You smirk as you buckle your seatbelt, tossing your bag onto your lap. “Not destroy. Just remind a certain someone what she’s about to lose.”

Jasmine’s laugh fills the car as she reaches over for a fist bump. “Now that is the energy I needed. She won’t know what hit her.”

The ride to Ted’s feels electric. The bass of the music pulses through the car, a perfect soundtrack to your rising confidence. Jasmine keeps hyping you up the whole way, stealing glances at you every so often.

“You look so good, you’re probably going to start a fight,” she teases with a grin.

You meet her eyes with a smirk, adjusting a strand of hair in the mirror. “Good,” you say, your voice dripping with confidence. “Let her be mad. She’s got it coming.”

Jasmine’s laughter rings out, blending with the music as the two of you pull into the crowded parking lot. The neon sign for Ted’s glows against the night sky, and the hum of voices and laughter spills out into the cool evening air.

You step out of the car with purpose, adjusting your outfit one last time as your heels click against the asphalt. One final glance in the car’s side mirror confirms what you already know: you’re a vision, and tonight, you’re a force to be reckoned with.

Ted’s won’t know what hit it. And neither will Paige.

The low buzz of voices and the faint clinking of glasses hit you the moment you step into Ted’s. The warm glow of string lights overhead bathes the packed bar in a golden hue, and the energy in the room is palpable—loud laughter, animated conversations, and the occasional cheer erupting from the direction of the pool table. Your heels click against the floor as you make your way in with Jasmine, Veronica, and Serena flanking you like a well-coordinated squad.

It doesn’t take long to spot her. Paige is exactly where you expected, seated in a large booth near the back with Azzi, KK, Ice, and Jana. She’s dressed casually, black denim shorts, a black crop top, and an unbuttoned, white shirt, but she might as well be wearing a neon sign with the way she draws attention. She’s laughing, leaning back with her arm draped casually over the seat, completely at ease. You can see the sparkle in her eyes from here, even as she remains blissfully unaware of your presence.

The sight makes your stomach twist, but you shake it off. Tonight isn’t about Paige. At least that’s what you tell yourself.

“Let’s hit the bar,” you say, keeping your voice steady as you lead your friends in the opposite direction, deliberately ignoring the booth and the person in it.

The bartender greets you with a smile, and you order a couple rounds of shots for your group, letting Jasmine and the others hype you up as you throw them back the second they’re placed in front of you. Once you feel enough of a buzz to quell your anxiety, you decide to settle for a mixed drink to sip on for the remainder of the night. It isn’t long before you notice someone approaching, a tall, athletic-looking girl with broad shoulders and an easy grin. She’s wearing a fitted T-shirt and jeans, and the confidence in her stride is unmistakable.

“Hey,” she says, leaning against the bar. Her voice is low, smooth. “You look like you’re having more fun than anyone else here.”

You flash her a smile, tilting your head slightly. “You could say that.”

Her grin widens, and she introduces herself, launching into a conversation that you quickly match. Her compliments come freely—your outfit, your laugh, even the way you carry yourself—and you don’t hold back, laughing a little louder than usual and letting your fingers brush against her arm as you talk.

Across the booth, KK nudges Paige, a look of concern flickering across her face. “Uh, hey, isn’t that Y/N?” she says, nodding toward the bar.

Paige’s head snaps toward KK, her expression darkening as she follows her teammate’s line of sight. Her brows knit together as she takes in the scene—your effortless smile, the way you lean into the girl’s space, her hand resting on the bar just a little too close to yours. She recognizes the look in your eyes, it’s the same look she was on the receiving end of the first night you met.

“Yeah,” Paige says shortly, her voice clipped. She sets her drink down with more force than necessary, her grip tightening around the glass before she looks away.

Meanwhile, you pretend not to notice the silent storm brewing across the room. You keep your focus on the girl in front of you, leaning in just enough to keep the conversation flowing, though you can feel the heat of Paige’s jealousy from where you stand. It sends a thrill through you, equal parts satisfaction and spite.

As the girl laughs at something you’ve said, you turn your head to the side slightly, trying to catch a glance at the booth where Paige sits. Out of the corner of your eye, you see her tense, her hand balling into a fist on the table as she murmurs something to Azzi.

You can feel it in the air, Paige is reaching her breaking point. And that’s exactly what you wanted.

Paige sits stiffly in the booth, her grip on her drink tightening as her knuckles blanch. Her jaw works furiously, muscles twitching as if she’s holding back an eruption. The sound of your laugh, airy and effortless, cuts through the din of the bar, and Paige’s eyes flicker with barely concealed rage. Her teammates exchange uneasy glances, sensing the storm brewing beside them.

Azzi nudges KK and leans in. “Uh, is she okay?”

KK shrugs, her voice low. “I don’t think so.”

Paige suddenly stands, her movements sharp and deliberate. The scrape of her chair against the floor draws their attention.

“Where are you going?” Azzi asks, concern softening her voice.

Paige doesn’t look at her, her gaze fixed like a laser on you across the room. “I’ll be back,” she mutters, her voice clipped.

She doesn’t wait for a response, weaving through the crowd with purpose. Her steps are quick, her shoulders tight, and her eyes never leave you. You’re at the bar, leaning casually against the counter, completely absorbed in your conversation with the tall, athletic-looking girl beside you. The girl leans in close, her hand grazing your arm as she says something that makes you throw your head back with a laugh.

Paige’s chest tightens, and the corners of her vision blur with the heat of her jealousy. Each second feels like an eternity as she closes the distance, her blood boiling at the sight of the stranger getting a little too comfortable with you.

When she reaches you, she doesn’t pause to think. Her arm snakes around your waist in one swift motion, pulling you firmly against her side. The sudden contact makes you gasp, your conversation abruptly cut off. The flirty girl takes a step back, startled and clearly intimidated by Paige’s possessive presence.

“We’re leaving,” Paige says, her tone low and commanding. Her words are sharp enough to slice through the tension in the air.

You turn your head sharply, blinking in surprise as your eyes meet hers. The fire in her gaze burns so brightly it could scorch you, but you’re too stubborn to back down. “Now you have time to talk to me?” you ask, drawing the sentence out with deliberate sarcasm. “I think I’m fine right here.”

Paige’s jaw ticks, but she doesn’t respond. Instead, her arm tightens around your waist, her fingers pressing firmly into your side. It’s a silent warning, one you choose to ignore as you plant your feet against her attempts to steer you toward the door.

“Paige, what the hell?” you protest, your voice rising with irritation.

“Not here,” she snaps, her tone cold and final. Her grip remains unrelenting as she continues to lead you away from the bar.

Your friends notice the commotion, Jasmine standing halfway out of her seat. “Y/N, are you good?” she calls, her brows furrowed with concern.

You twist in Paige’s hold just enough to look back at them, throwing a hand up in a dismissive wave. “I’ll text you!” you shout over your shoulder, your voice dripping with frustration.

Paige doesn’t slow her pace until the two of you are outside, the cool night air biting at your skin. She releases you near her car, and you immediately step back, glaring at her.

“Seriously, Paige?” you snap, your voice sharp as you cross your arms over your chest. “You think you can just show up, ruin my night, and drag me out like this?”

Paige’s nostrils flare as she turns to face you fully, her expression thunderous. “I think I just did.”

Eventually you arrive at her apartment, and she has to practically pull you out of her car by your arm. The second you step into Paige’s entryway, you rip your arm out of her grip with enough force to make her stumble slightly. You spin around to face her, your chest heaving with frustration. The door slams shut behind you, echoing through the space like a gunshot.

“What the hell is your problem, Paige?” you shout, your voice cutting through the silence like a blade. Your words are sharp, fueled by anger that’s been simmering for days.

Paige whirls around to face you, her face already twisted in fury. “My problem?” she fires back, her voice rising to match yours, letting out a humorless chuckle. “You’re out there all over some random girl, and you’re asking me what my problem is?”

You take a step closer, refusing to back down. “Yeah, I am! Because you ignore me all week, and the second I talk to someone else, you suddenly care? Make it make sense, Paige!”

She runs both hands through her hair, pacing in jerky, frustrated strides between the door and the counter. “Do you know how insane it made me to see you with her?” she snaps, her words laced with raw, unfiltered emotion. “Laughing, touching her, looking like you were having the time of your life? Like I didn’t even exist?”

You laugh bitterly, the sound sharp and humorless as you cross your arms over your chest. “That’s rich, Paige. At least she actually talked to me, which is more than I’ve gotten from you in weeks.”

The room feels charged, every word hanging heavy in the air, but Paige isn’t done. She steps forward again, her voice low and rough with frustration. “You think I don’t care? You think I don’t want to talk to you? You’re all over her, touching her like it doesn’t matter, and it’s driving me crazy—"

“Gee, sounds like you finally get it,” you fire back, your words sharp with bitterness. “But hey, don’t worry, I’ll stop talking to people if it’ll make you feel better. Maybe next time, I’ll just sit in the corner and wait for you to remember I’m here, like some sad little backup plan.”

You turn your head, preparing to walk out, but before you can take a single step, Paige’s hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist with a force that stops you in your tracks. Your heart pounds in your chest as you turn to face her, ready to throw another snarky remark her way.

But before you can speak, she’s there, bringing her hands to grab both sides of your face, her lips crashing into yours with an intensity that takes you by surprise. You freeze for a split second, then instinct kicks in. You try to pull away, pushing against her chest with as much force as you can muster.

But she doesn’t let up. Her kiss deepens, her hand sliding to the back of your neck, keeping you in place. The anger you’ve been carrying fades, replaced with confusion and something else you can’t quite name. You can feel her tension, her frustration, her need for something—maybe an answer, maybe redemption.

She slides one of her hands down to anchor around the front of your throat, her other hand drifting to grab at your hip through the thin material of your dress. She slowly starts to back you towards her kitchen, not stopping until the top of your ass is pressing against the island counter. She brings both hands to your hips, tapping the side of your ass with one hand, encouraging you to jump, and roughly squeezing your hip with the other.

A soft gasp escapes your lips as she lifts you effortlessly onto the cool marble countertop. Her hands slide possessively up your thighs, pushing the hem of your dress higher. She steps forward, wedging herself between your parted legs.

"You look so fucking good in this dress," she says, her voice low and thick with desire. One hand slips under the fabric to caress the bare skin of your hip while the other tangles in your hair, tugging your head back to expose the column of your throat.

She dips her head, warm breath ghosting over your sensitive skin before her lips press against your racing pulse. Your back arches as she nips at the delicate skin, soothing the pinch with her tongue and surely leaving a mark. A breathy moan fills the air and it takes you a moment to realize it came from you.

Her lips trail lower, peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. You shiver as her tongue flicks out to taste your skin. The hand on your hip slides inward, fingertips skimming teasingly along the inside of your thigh.

You wrap your legs around her waist, pulling her in closer, desperate for more contact. She chuckles darkly against your throat, the vibrations sending sparks of pleasure racing down your spine. "I love it when you get like this," she murmurs approvingly. "All desperate and needy."

To punctuate her point, she rolls her hips, grinding against your center. The pressure and friction draw a keening whimper from your lips. Your hands fly up to grip her strong shoulders, nails digging into taut muscle through her shirt.

Her lips glide over your skin, a delicate yet fervent touch, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. As she moves up from your jawline, each kiss ignites a spark, and her breath, hot and teasing, touches your neck, sending shivers racing down your spine. "I've been thinking about having you like this all night," she murmurs.

You whimper as her hands skim higher, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the thin fabric. She captures your lips in a searing kiss, tongue delving deep to claim your mouth, leaving you breathless and aching for more.

She reaches up to pull your dress down, revealing your bare breasts. Her lips immediately latch onto one of your nipples, sucking and biting it gently. You arch into her touch, a moan escaping your parted lips as she places full attention on the sensitive bud. Her tongue flicks and swirls, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

Her other hand palms your neglected breast, kneading the supple flesh. She rolls the pebbled nipple between her fingers, pinching and tugging in time with the ministrations of her mouth, each pull sending another rush of heat flooding your body.

"So pretty, baby," she says, the words vibrating against your skin. She gives your nipple one last hard suck before trailing her lips across your chest to the other breast, circling her tongue around the straining peak. Her mouth is relentless, her tongue swirling and flicking over your nipple until it’s aching, her teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. Her free hand slides down your stomach, fingers tracing the curve of your hip before slipping between your thighs. You’re already wet, your panties soaked through, and she groans against your skin as her fingers brush over the damp fabric.

Your head falls back as you cry out, hands fisting in her silky hair to hold her close. She smirks against your skin, clearly enjoying the reactions she's pulling from your trembling body. Your back arches involuntarily, pressing your body closer to hers as you desperately seek more of her touch, the sound of her soft chuckle making you shudder with pleasure.

"Patience," she whispers, the word barely audible as her fingers trace lazy circles around your clit through the lace of your underwear. The sensation is frustrating, and you can't help but whimper, your hips bucking involuntarily in search of more contact.

You can feel the wetness pooling between your legs, your body responding to her touch in ways you never thought possible. You already know she's jealous, you saw the way she looked at you earlier when you were talking to that other girl. But you can't help but feel thrilled at the way she's touching you now, as if she's trying to claim you as her own.

You lean back on your hands, your eyes locked on Paige's as she continues to tease you. Her gaze is intense, fiery, and you can see the possessiveness in her eyes. It sends a thrill down your spine, making you even more turned on.

"You're mine," Paige murmurs, her voice low and husky, filled with an undeniable possessiveness. The words send a thrill throughout your body, making your heart race with excitement. “Say it.”

"I'm yours," you whisper back, your voice barely audible as the tension builds within you. You can feel the pressure growing more and more intense, your body aching for release.

Paige's fingers finally slip under the waistband of your underwear, making contact with your sensitive skin. The feeling is electrifying, sending jolts of pleasure through your body. You cry out, your hips bucking wildly as she begins to stroke you. Her touch is firm and confident, her fingers expertly finding your most sensitive spots.

You feel yourself teetering on the edge of orgasm, your body trembling with anticipation. Paige's gaze is locked on yours, her eyes filled with a fierce intensity that makes you feel both vulnerable and powerful at the same time.

She leans in, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispers, "Come for me, baby."

And with those words, you finally let go, your body convulsing with pleasure as you cry out her name. Paige holds you close, her fingers still moving rhythmically as you ride out your orgasm. As the waves of your orgasm begin to subside, Paige pulls her fingers away from your clit.

Before you can fully catch your breath, Paige is on you again. She moves with a speed and agility that takes you by surprise, pushing your back onto the counter with a force that leaves you momentarily stunned.

Your body splayed out beneath her, you feel a thrill of excitement run through you. You're completely at her mercy, and the thought is intoxicating. Paige's hand makes its way back to your throat, her grip firm and unyielding. She pins you to the counter by your throat, her body pressing against yours as she holds you in place.

You gasp at the sudden change in position, your heart racing with a combination of fear and excitement. The feeling of being completely dominated by Paige is both terrifying and exhilarating, sending a rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins.

Paige's other hand slides back between your legs, her fingers finding your entrance with ease. You can feel yourself growing wetter with each passing moment, your body responding instinctually to her touch. She finds your g-spot easily, her fingers curling and pressing against it with just the right amount of pressure. You moan softly, your hips bucking as she begins to stroke you, her movements slow and deliberate at first, before building up to a feverish pace.

But she’s not content with just bringing you to orgasm. She wants to claim you, to mark you as hers in every way possible. And as she continues to finger you, her grip on your throat tightening ever so slightly, you know that you're completely and utterly hers.

Paige's movements become more insistent, her fingers moving faster and harder as she brings you closer and closer to the edge. You can feel yourself teetering on the brink of another orgasm, your body writhing and bucking beneath her touch. Your breath comes in short, ragged gasps as she continues, her movements growing more frantic as she feels your body starting to give in to the pleasure. “Paige, I can’t… it’s too much.”

“Nah, baby, I’ve been so mean to you this week, I just wanna make it up to you.” You moan louder now, your voice echoing through the room as Paige brings you to new heights of pleasure. Your body feels like it's on fire, every nerve ending sparking with pleasure. “C’mon, I know you can take it.”

And then, with one final stroke, you reach the peak of your orgasm, your body convulsing and shaking as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you. Paige's fingers continue to move inside you, prolonging your orgasm and sending you spiraling into new heights of ecstasy. When it's all over, you collapse back onto the counter, your body spent and satisfied. Paige pulls her fingers away, a satisfied smirk on her face as she looks down at you, bringing her fingers to her mouth to suck at the remnants of your orgasm.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you snap, your voice sharper than you intended, though the heat in your cheeks betrays your embarrassment. You quickly move to fix your dress, suddenly feeling self-conscious now that the moment is over.

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” Paige replies, her voice steady but softer than usual. Still, her gaze doesn’t waver, her blue eyes fixed on you.

The silence in the apartment feels suffocating, filled with the weight of everything unspoken. The distant hum of the refrigerator is the only sound, an almost mocking contrast to the charged tension between you. Sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter, you swing your legs idly, trying to feign a casualness you don’t feel. The cool surface beneath you does little to soothe the heat creeping up your neck as Paige stands in front of you, close enough that her presence seems to fill the room.

When you finally look at her, expecting that same smug, self-satisfied smirk she’s perfected, you’re caught off guard. Her expression isn’t cocky; it’s something else entirely. The spark of amusement is gone, replaced by something heavier, something raw. Her blue eyes hold yours, steady and searching, as if she’s trying to find the words buried somewhere between you.

Paige shifts slightly, her hands resting on the counter on either side of your thighs. She takes a breath, her chest rising and falling in a way that betrays the steady confidence she usually exudes. For a split second, it feels like the world narrows down to just this moment, just the two of you.

Her voice finally breaks the silence, low and uncharacteristically serious. “You know we need to talk about everything.”

The words hang between you, heavy and undeniable. Her tone is firm but carries a vulnerability that makes your stomach twist. She’s not brushing this off or dancing around it like you half-expected. No teasing grin, no playful deflection—just a directness that makes it impossible to pretend this is something you can both walk away from unscathed.

Paige shifts her weight slightly, standing even closer now, the space between your legs shrinking until there’s barely any left. The warmth of her body radiates against you, and you suddenly feel hyper aware of every inch of space she occupies. Her eyes don’t leave yours, and you can tell she’s waiting, giving you the chance to push her away—or pull her closer.

But the way she looks at you, so open and unguarded, makes it hard to do either. It’s a stark contrast to the Paige who had been ignoring your texts all week, and yet, it feels so achingly familiar. You’re torn between wanting to stay guarded and giving in to the pull of the moment. Finally, you arch an eyebrow, your voice steady despite the swirl of emotions threatening to surface.

“Okay,” you say, your tone more challenging than you intended. “Start talking.”

Paige’s shoulders stiffen, and for a second, you think she might retreat into that wall of stoicism she hides behind so well. But then her jaw tightens, and she steps even closer, her closeness making your nervousness spike, but you don’t flinch, meeting her gaze head-on.

“I can’t stand seeing you with someone else,” she says, her words thick with frustration. “I don’t want you flirting, laughing, or even looking at anyone but me. I want you, Y/N. Only you. I want us to be exclusive. I’ll do better. Just… don’t ever do that again.”

Your breath catches, and you almost flinch at how accurately her words cut to the truth. Still, you say nothing, giving her the space to continue.

“I messed up,” she begins, her voice quiet but deliberate. “I know I’ve been distant. I know I’ve made you feel like you’re not important to me, like basketball or… anything else in my life comes before you.”

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to maintain your composure, the snarky defense you’ve built up around yourself threatening to crack. You cross your arms, fighting to keep the sarcasm in your voice, even though your insides are a tangled mess of emotions.

“Exclusive, huh?” you challenge, your voice sharp, almost taunting, as you raise an eyebrow. Your arms are crossed tightly over your chest, creating a barrier between you and the vulnerability she’s suddenly laying at your feet. “And what happens when basketball gets in the way again? When I’m just another item on your to-do list?”

Paige flinches, just barely, but you catch it. The slight crack in her usually unshakable confidence stirs something in you—satisfaction, maybe, or guilt. You can’t quite tell. Her jaw tightens, the muscles working as if she’s biting back the first response that comes to mind. Instead, her gaze shifts, no longer carrying the frustration or defensiveness you’ve grown used to. Instead, there’s something softer, rawer, in the way she looks at you now. The intensity of her eyes locks you in place, her expression quietly pleading yet resolute.

“I’m not going to let that happen again,” Paige says, her voice low and steady. “I know I’ve screwed up before. I’ve made you feel like you’re not a priority, like you’re just… there, waiting for me to fit you in.” She pauses, the weight of her own admission hanging heavily between you. “But that’s not how I see you. That’s not what I want us to be.”

Her words hit you harder than you expected. There’s no rehearsed apology, no empty promises. Just a raw honesty that feels like she’s peeling back the layers she’s kept hidden from everyone else. Your heart twists, torn between holding onto your frustration and the pull of what she’s offering.

You narrow your eyes, unwilling to let her off the hook so easily. “And how do I know this isn’t just another one of your moments? That it won’t be the same cycle all over again?”

Paige exhales, her shoulders rising and falling with the weight of your skepticism. “Because I don’t want to lose you,” she says simply, her tone almost breaking. “Because when I saw you with her tonight, it felt like the ground was being ripped out from under me. I don’t want to feel that again, Y/N. I don’t want you to ever feel like you’re not enough, or that you’re not worth my time.”

You’re still sitting on the counter, and the height difference gives you a brief sense of power, though it doesn’t last long under the intensity of her gaze.

“You’re not some item on a list,” she continues, her voice softening as she tilts her head to meet your eyes. “You’re the list, Y/N. You’re the one thing that matters more than all of it. And if that means I have to rearrange my life, show up differently, or prove it to you every single day, then that’s what I’ll do.”

The vulnerability in her words catches you off guard. For a moment, all the anger and bitterness you’ve been clinging to starts to loosen its grip. Still, you’re not ready to let her win that easily. You raise an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly as if to study her, daring her to flinch under your scrutiny.

“You’re really laying it on thick, Bueckers,” you quip, though the usual sharpness in your tone is softened by the faintest hint of a smirk.

Paige’s lips twitch upward, a flicker of her usual confidence returning. “That’s because I mean it,” she counters, her voice steady. “I’m not going to let you walk away from this—not without fighting for you.”

You’re quiet for a moment, the air between you charged with unspoken feelings and the lingering tension of everything that’s gone unsaid for far too long.

“So, you’re telling me I’m the priority now?” you ask, your voice quieter this time, a little softer, though you keep your arms crossed in a weak attempt to shield yourself. There’s hesitation in your tone, an uncertainty you can’t quite hide, but the words still slip past your lips. “Not basketball, not your schedule, not the team?”

Paige doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t waver. Her blue eyes hold yours with an intensity that pins you in place, her conviction written all over her face. “Yes,” she says, her voice steady, as though the truth of it is something she’s carried for a long time. “You. Only you, Y/N.”

You look down at where her hands rest, then back up to meet her eyes—those piercing blue eyes that seem to hold nothing but honesty and a hint of fear, as if she’s bracing for your rejection. Your defenses falter. The weight of her confession, the raw emotion in her voice, the way she’s standing there, so vulnerable—it all seeps into the cracks of your resolve. Slowly, your arms drop to your sides, the tension in your shoulders easing as you exhale a shaky breath.

“Paige,” you murmur, your voice quieter now, fueled with something more forgiving. “If you screw this up—”

“I won’t,” she interrupts, her voice firm but not forceful. Her hands slide up slightly, resting on your hips now, anchoring herself to you. “I swear to you, Y/N. I won’t.”

You hold her gaze for another long moment, searching her face for any sign of doubt. But all you see is determination—determination and something deeper, something so achingly familiar it makes your heart clench.

“Okay,” you whisper, the word barely audible, but it’s enough. Enough to make Paige’s expression soften, her shoulders relax, and a spark of hope flicker in her eyes.

Her grip on your hips tightens slightly as she steps closer, standing between your legs, her face just inches from yours now. “Okay?” she repeats, as if she can’t quite believe it.

“Okay,” you say again, your voice steadier this time. You tilt your head slightly, a small, almost teasing smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “But you’d better back it up, Bueckers. I’m not making this easy for you.”

Paige chuckles softly, a sound filled with relief and affection. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Before you can respond, she leans in, her hands sliding up to cup your face gently, her thumbs brushing against your cheeks. She hesitates for the briefest moment, giving you a chance to pull away, but when you don’t, she closes the distance.

The kiss is slow at first, almost tentative, as if she’s trying to convey everything she can’t put into words. But it doesn’t take long for the intensity to build, for her to pour every ounce of her emotions into the connection. Her lips move against yours with a mix of passion and desperation, and you can feel her heartbeat pounding in sync with your own.

Your hands find their way to her shoulders, then slide up to thread through her hair, pulling her closer as you kiss her back with just as much fervor. The tension, the anger, the frustration of the past week melts away, replaced by a warmth that spreads through your chest like wildfire.

When she finally pulls back, both of you are breathing hard, foreheads resting together. Paige’s eyes search yours, her lips curling into a small, almost shy smile. “I’ll make it up to you, Y/N. Every day. You’ll see.”

You can’t help but smile back, your fingers still tangled in her hair. “You’d better,” you reply, your tone soft but teasing. “Because I’m holding you to it.”

Paige grins, and for the first time in what feels like forever, it feels like everything is falling into place.

#paige buckets #paige bueckers #paige bueckers fic #uconn huskies #paige bueckers x reader #uconn wcbb #wcbb #wlw fanfic #wlw post #uconn x reader

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gloomwitchwrites · 1 year ago

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What If 141... "tell me you need me" and/or " I don't want you to stop"

Okay. Okay okay okay okay. When I first read this prompt, I genuinely thought I would write something really sweet and soft. But I also have free will. I am an independent individual. I make the choices here. Are they sweet? Yes. Are they soft? A bit. Is this mostly spice? Yes. Yes it is. I will not ask forgiveness.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, non-descriptive sex, praise, fluff, established relationship, suggestive themes

Word Count: 800

ao3 / main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“Say it, love. I want to hear you say it.”

Everything in you is buzzing. It is loud, as if a hive of bees dwells beneath your skin. Each touch John gives you is electric. A zing of pleasure that rockets outward until the tips of your fingers and toes tingle.

“You don’t play fair,” you whine, sinking against him, surrendering to his touch.

“Never do,” he murmurs, nipping at your earlobe.

You reach up to touch him, to hook your arm around the back of his neck. You need to anchor yourself before you fall over the edge. His fingers are expert things, moving in little circles between your legs. It is agony. And so very sweet.

John seizes your wrist. Brings your arm back to your side.

“No,” he says. “You can’t have that yet.”

“Why not?”

John’s lips brush against your throat. “Tell me you need me. Say it and I’ll give you what you want.” He lightly bites. “Promise.”

You swallow hard. The words are forming, but they are only air. Slipping away with each stroke of his fingers.

John pauses. And that sets you off instantly.

“I need you, John,” you gasp.

“That’s my girl.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle’s fingers thread lightly through your hair. It’s a gentle touch. One that sends a shiver through you.

Your hands roam, touching everywhere. There is skin beneath your fingers. It is taut, slick with water from the shower. Kyle is warm too like a good blanket. You could wrap yourself up in him.

Kyle returns to your hair, working in the shampoo. You close your eyes and sink into the feeling. He has one arm around your waist as if you’ll run off.

“Don’t stop,” you moan. “That feels good.”

Kyle’s soft laugh comes from behind you, and then he guides you under the spray, washing away the shampoo.

“Need to get the rest of you,” he purrs, those strong hands of his grasping your waist, spinning you around to face him. “Where should I start first?”

He traces one finger along your jaw and down the side of your throat only to descend to collarbone and the curve of your breast. He goes lower. Lower still.

You grasp his wrist, arching into his touch.

“Here?” he asks with a smug smile.

You’re needy. And his hand between your legs is bliss.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you reply.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Oh. Fu—fuck, love. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Johnny groans loudly above you, his head tilted back in ecstasy. Behind you, the television is on but the sound is muted. It bathes the bedroom in a blueish glow. Johnny isn’t paying attention, and you’re not either.

You are settled between his legs, your mouth full of him.

This is a craving. A vice. Johnny is always the one giving. He loves to do it. Loves to shower you with affection and as much pleasure as you can handle. But you have the control now. You’re the one making him squirm. Making him writhe and whimper.

It’s lovely this feeling. The power is perfect.

No wonder Johnny loves doing this so much.

He groans again, the arm next to his side, fist clenched. His other hand rises, and tentatively brushes against your scalp. Johnny’s eyes are closed. You’re not sure if he even knows what he’s doing.

“I don’t want you to stop,” he says, almost absently, as if speaking to the air.

You continue. Tasting.

His hand against your scalp strengthens, fingers tangling in your hair. His grip is fierce.

“Don’t stop,” he repeats. “Don’t want you to stop.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“That’s not what you say. You know this, love.”

Simon grasps your chin between thumb and forefinger. He squeezes slightly, tipping upward. You are unable to look away. Unable to move. Those dark eyes with pale eyelashes drive a spear through your heart every time.

It’s maddening.

You lick your lips and Simon follows the movement. He examines your mouth, and then his thumb brushes against the underside of your bottom lip. It sends a little shiver through you. Simon is powerful. Strong. He could easily break you, and yet he can be so gentle.

“I’m not gonna ask again.” Simon draws you closer and leans forward as if to kiss you. He doesn’t though, simply holds there, awaiting an answer.

He won’t give you what you’re seeking just yet. Not until you say the magic words.

“Tell me you need me,” he murmurs.

That is all Simon wants. To be desired. To be needed. He loves to hear it from your lips, especially like now when the two of you are tangled in each other. Other times, it’s simple things like reaching something on the top shelf.

And you will tell him.

You always do.

“I need you, Simon.”

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zugzwangdefeat · 1 month ago

Text

Side Effects May Include…

john walker x female reader. [~1.6k]

SUMMARY. It’s Halloween, and Val’s brilliant idea of “team bonding” involves cheap decorations, weird punch, and Asgardian liquor someone smuggled in through Kamar-Taj.

WARNINGS. Alcohol, sexual innuendo (playful...not explicit), oblivious!John becauss DUH, mutual pining, suggestive costume??, flirting, slow burn payoff hehe... A/N my requests are open! <3

The Thunderbolts’ idea of a Halloween party is exactly as chaotic as you’d expect. There’s a suspiciously bubbling punch bowl, a DJ that is severely under qualified its just alexei, and somewhere in the mix, Bucky’s asleep upright in a chair, wearing a glow-in-the-dark skeleton hoodie. You’re not too shy to admit you’re a bit underwhelmed.

You’re drinking out of a plastic syringe cup when you spot him.

John Walker.

Dressed as a cowboy.

Of course.

He’s in a denim button-up with the sleeves rolled, a sheriff’s badge pinned half-heartedly to his chest. The hat keeps slipping down over his eyes, and he keeps readjusting it like it's personally attacking him. He’s got a cup of glowing green liquid in one hand and a confused expression on his face like he can’t decide if the room’s spinning or if he’s just having a spiritual crisis.

You smirk, straighten your skirt, and make your move.

Your heels click against the floor as you cross the room—partially for effect, partially because this costume was not made for combat-ready footwork. The white mini-dress clings in all the right places, the red cross on your chest practically shimmering in the neon lights. There’s a plastic stethoscope slung around your neck and a garter holster on your thigh with nothing in it except flirtation.

“Need medical attention, Sheriff?” you ask sweetly, standing in front of him.

John blinks. Slowly. Like he’s buffering.

“Oh,” he says, eyes flicking down to your costume and then violently back up to your face. “You’re a… nurse?”

“Not just a nurse,” you grin, leaning in slightly. “A very hands-on one.”

John chokes on his drink.

You pat him on the back as he coughs. “Careful. That’s Asgardian liquor, I think. Rocket-fuel vibes.”

“Yeah, it’s…” He swallows hard. “It’s something.”

You eye his flushed cheeks and note the way he sways just slightly. Super soldier metabolism or not, that stuff hits.

“Let me know if you start seeing double,” you tease. “I do house calls.”

John gives you a dazed, confused smile. “That’s… nice of you.”

You squint at him. “You okay, Walker?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Just didn’t realize everyone would be dressed like that.”

“Like what?”

He gestures vaguely at your body, then aborts the motion halfway. “Y’know. Party costumes.”

You grin wider. “You don’t like my costume?”

His ears turn pink. “No—I mean, I do. I didn’t mean— It’s just—”

You take pity on him. Sort of.

You loop a finger around your stethoscope and say, “Relax, Sheriff. I’m just here to take pulses, not lives.”

John opens his mouth like he’s about to say something deeply profound and/or absolutely stupid, but Ghost bumps into him with a grumbled “Watch it, America”, and the moment passes.

Over the course of the night, you hit him with at least four very obvious flirt lines:

“I’ve got a cure for that lonely-cowboy look you’re wearing.”

“If you’re ever in need of mouth-to-mouth, I’m CPR certified.”

“You could use a good bedside manner. Want lessons?”

And, your personal favorite, while reapplying lipstick: “Need help with that sheriff badge? I’m good with my hands.”

Each one is met with polite laughter, some stammering, and increasingly pink ears. But zero recognition.

John Walker is a brick wall of obliviousness.

You’re half-tempted to wear a neon sign that says “I WANT TO DATE YOU, DUMMY”, but you’re not sure even that would register unless it hit him in the face.

Eventually, the party winds down. Val’s passed out in a beanbag chair with sunglasses on. Yelena’s still arguing with Bucky about whether or not Die Hard is a Halloween movie. Ghost has disappeared. Literally.

You find John standing by the door, cowboy hat tucked under one arm, hair tousled, and still blinking like the lights are a little too bright.

“Leaving?” you ask, stepping up beside him.

“Yeah. Figured I’d turn in before I start seeing frost giants.”

You smile softly. “How gallant.”

He looks at you—really looks this time. His gaze lingers longer, slower, like maybe the fog of his awkwardness is lifting just a bit.

“Hey,” he says suddenly. “You… You look nice tonight.”

Your heart flutters.

“Thanks,” you say. “You do too.”

“Even with the hat?”

“Especially with the hat.”

He fidgets with it, mouth twitching. “Well. Goodnight, then.”

You nod. Step in closer. Kiss him on the cheek.

But at the last second, you turn your head—just enough for your lips to catch the corner of his mouth.

Warm. Soft. Brief.

Then you pull away like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Night, Sheriff,” you murmur, patting his chest before walking past him.

Behind you, he stands frozen. Absolutely still. Cowboy statue.

Then:

“Wait…” he says under his breath, eyes wide. “Has she been flirting with me this whole time?”

#john walker imagine #john walker x reader #john walker #john walker x y/n #john walker x you #thunderbolts #mcu #marvel mcu #marvel fanfic #marvel x reader #mcu x reader #marvel #us agent #wyatt russell

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bloggerspam · 17 days ago

Text

Dear Darcy...

Another AU borne from the HHD server--Touch-starved DoM with identity shenanigans. Follow here on AO3!

===

It isn't until well into their acquaintanceship that Jason notices something odd about Phantom.

That's not exactly true—Jason noticed it on their third mission together in a passing thought, but decided to not care about it on account of all the bullets and daggers being thrown at him and his team at the time.

Phantom is an ally, of sorts. A consult, perhaps, Jason doesn't really know.

It's hard to really say when they still don't really know what he does.

Though, again, that's not exactly true—Jason supposes it's more accurate to say they still don't really know what he can't do.

They go to him when the supernatural is involved, introduced to them via Zatanna when Jason expressed an adamant dislike of needing to ask JL Dark for anything (needing to ask Bruce for anything).

The ghost, a big name in the so called Realms world, is friendly and happy to help most of the time. He's a delight to work with in Jason's book, seeming to use his so-called ghost sense to read the room empathically—filling in the spaces when the quiet is too dark for the team, trailing behind silent as a shadow when even breathing is too loud, staying mostly out of the way and chiming in when necessary.

It helps that if shit hits the fan, Phantom can do something about it—it helps that that's the only time Phantom will ever butt in.

The Outlaws, Jason, is still to raw to handle playing nice, but Phantom makes it easy.

Phantom makes it effortless.

It makes Jason's gut roil in ways he's not sure how to deal with, beyond shooting it.

Either way, Jason, Red Hood, isn't supposed to be here in the Realms.

It's not that he's not allowed, per say, it's just that he wasn't exactly invited to this particular corner and Jason's a Bat, sure, but even he knows the supernatural have rules.

Jason was trying to summon Phantom for a quick mission, an in and out kind of deal that may or may not have had a cult involved in it that made Jason a little leery.

Except the summons was denied, which can happen sometimes when Phantom is busy.

Only instead of the circle simply going dark, like usual, Jason got pulled in instead.

So now he's here, in what he assumes to be Phantom's lair.

It's nice, the lair, if a little dark and mood-lighted. It has a dome-like structure, with stars and constellations all over like a planetarium. There's even one of those big ass telescopes peeking out the roof like one, though it seems to only point outwards towards the green of the Realms. Symbolic, or decorative in nature.

There's bookshelves of astrology and astronomy and all sorts of science and space related things littered throughout the shelves. Every now and then the stacks of books are interrupted with some kind of LEGO space creation, or a miniature of a rocket, or some of those weird weapons Phantom sometimes pulls out.

There's a work area, neat and messy at the same time, with a work table and a large toolbox drawer set. Metal detritus is piled neatly next to it, a project or two laid out under a heavy dark blue cloth on the table to keep it from getting dusty or be moved around if Jason has to guess.

In another area, there's living room-like space with a big monitor and beanbags and soft chairs surrounding it, typical of a college dorm room-esque gaming set up. Just beside it there's a large computer that hums softly, a picture of a female werewolf acting as a screensaver.

In yet another, there's a gathering of plants of many varieties growing this way and that. Jason spots a couple he recognizes from his run-ins with Pamela, and spots a copious amount of plants he doesn't recognize of this Earth. Ghost plants, he's assuming, from the glow of them.

There is even, curiously, one of those "at-home" basketball games that can fold away reminiscent of the ones you can see at the arcade with a couple miniature basketballs. Beside it, some kind of sleek mechanical looking surfboard rests against the wall in metallic reds and black with another toolbox set hidden just behind where it leans.

The kitchen area has a fridge that's absolutely covered in magnets from all over the world, a picture in crayon that is disconcertingly good pinned up here or there signed by someone named Ellie.

And then, of course, the main draw at the center of the room: a bed of sorts, stacked with pillows and blankets and assorted plushies of varying sizes.

Buried within is Phantom himself, huddled up in a nest of pillows and breathing heavy, angelic face flushed green the way a human would in fever. Jason, for the first time since meeting the halfa, truly wonders extensively how much the he isn't telling them.

Which brings Jason back to the odd thing.

Well, the odd thing that Jason is focusing on right now:

Phantom, contrary to his self-proclaimed ghostly nature, is very solid.

More than that, he's very, utterly, alive.

It's all the more apparent when Jason takes off one of his gloves to feel Phantom's forehead, the way Bruce would when Jason was Robin.

The way Jason wishes he could with his family.

Jason realizes, with the kind of starkness that comes from a photo flipbook of memories cascading through him, that he's never touched Phantom before. Not skin to skin or outside of a spar, and never like this.

He realizes, as the pocket book extends to not just him but his team-mates as well, that Phantom's never touched anyone before.

Always hovering just 6 feet away, like quarantine.

Like the depth of a grave.

Phantom is not quite hot to the touch, as Jason expects he would be. He had suspected a fever, of a sort. But he supposes it makes sense that a ghost would run cold, considering.

In the first place, Jason's not sure what possessed him to touch the ghost—he doesn't even have a baseline temperature to compare to so there's no real point.

He's not sure what possessed him to think this was okay, touching an ally like this without consent.

Not when his touch has never been welcomed, especially not when he's Red Hood.

He's just about to pull his hand away, careful not to wake the ghost, when Phantom starts to purr.

It rattles through him, like it's not used to being let out, as Phantom nuzzles at the tips of Jason's fingers.

As if Jason's touch was wanted, as if it comforts the ghost, as if Phantom wants nothing more.

As if this very hand didn't burn buildings to the ground, didn't shoot men into the fathoms, didn't carry bloody duffle bags, didn't fucking hurt hurt hurt.

Jason withdraws his hand carefully, gliding as gently as he can manage, breathing slow and deep.

He's been trained bloody enough to know pulling back in knee-jerk reaction can give things away.

He does not want Phantom to know he touched him.

Jason puts his glove back on, tight and unforgiving, and steps back.

He flexes his hand once, twice. Shakes it, before forcefully relaxing every muscle, trying to melt away the cold traces of Phantom's skin on his.

He clears his throat once, twice a little harsher, until Phantom mewls and blinks glowing green eyes up at him. His gaze is hazy with fever, soft like feathers, child-like in confusion.

And here, another odd thing Jason has not noticed until now:

When did Phantom's Lazarus green eyes become comforting?

When did Phantom's watery green eyes become forgiving?

#inspired heavily by the infamous darcy gif where he flexes his hand #touch starved dead on main #dead on main #danny phantom #my writing #dpxdc #dcxdp #dp x dc #dc x dp #danny fenton #jason todd #red hood #darcy au #i use pride and predjudice quotes for all the chapter names on AO3 #i worked really hard on it

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whimsicaldoxy · 7 months ago

Text

𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐘 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 - 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐘

pairing: fred weasley x reader

summary: you and fred share a cozy evening at the burrow on new year’s eve, surrounded by the weasley family’s warmth and chaos.

notes: established relationship, pre-war, insinuated fem!reader, no use of y/n, fred loves pet names, fluff

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

The time was creeping closer and closer to midnight, and the evening air was filling the Burrow, the scent of smoked wood and Mrs Weasley’s famous treacle tart.

Fred was sat beside you on the patchwork sofa in the living room, his arm draped lazily over your shoulders. The pair of you were half-buried under a hand-knitted blanket, sharing a butterbeer.

“Go on, admit it,” Fred said, leaning closer as his freckled face glowed in the firelight. “You’re only dating me for my charm.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back into the sofa. “Oh, absolutely. It’s definitely not for your constant, irritating smugness or the way you ruin a perfectly good evening by stealing all the treacle tart before I can even get a bite.”

Fred gasped dramatically, his hand flying to his chest. “Darling, you wound me! You know my heart belongs only to you.”

George, his brother, who perched on the arm of the couch like a smug cat, chimed in. “That and his stomach. Mum’s cooking ranks a close second.”

Fred ignored him. “You’re not denying it, though,” he said, his grin widening as he looked back at you. “See? Can’t even argue because you love me.”

“Love might be a strong word,” you said, lifting the mug to your lips, hiding your smirk behind the rim.

“Oi!” Fred started, his finger gripping the blanket in attempt to pull it. George gave him a sharp jab in the side. “Off you go, Freddie. Don’t embarrass yourself further.”

You yank at the blanket, pulling it fully over you as Fred bickered with his twin. “Speaking of embarrassing yourself,” you said, raising an eyebrow at Fred. “Are you going to ask what my New Year’s resolution is, or are you too scared to know?”

He perked up at that, his golden-brown eyes gleaming with curiosity. “All right. Let’s hear it. Let me guess—it’s to learn to tolerate my unparalleled wit?”

You leaned closer, the corner of your mouth quirking into a grin. “It’s to beat you at Exploding Snap this year. Every. Single. Time.”

Fred blinked once. Then twice. Then he threw his head back in a loud, delighted laugh before leaning forward. “Blimey, darling. That’s ambitious, even for you.”

“You’ll see,” you replied smugly, leaning in.

“Five minutes to midnight!” Mrs Weasley’s voice boomed from the kitchen. “Everyone grab your drinks and get outside for the fireworks! And George, if you light a single one before we’re ready, so help me—”

The whole family shuffled outside, you included, the cold winter air hitting you like a sudden shock after the warmth of the house. Snow crunched underfoot, white, soft and glittering under the light of the stars. The garden was a chaos of footprints and hastily trampled paths, leading to a makeshift firework display that George was already fussing over.

A stack of colourful rockets stood ready, haphazardly tied together in what could only be described as a precarious masterpiece.

As your head tilted to stare up at the stars overhead, Fred slipped his hand into yours, his fingers warm and rough against your own. He guided you towards the edge, his arm curling around your waist, pulling you to his side as the first firework shot into the air with a loud crack—it exploded in a burst of crimson and gold, lighting up the sky.

Fred leaned down, his voice soft in your ear. “You know, it doesn’t matter what resolutions you make this year.” His tone was so different from his usual teasing—gentle and sincere. “As long as you’re with me, that’s all I’ll ever need.”

The weight of his words settled in the air around you, and for a moment, you forgot about the cold or the impending war that loomed on the horizon. You turned to him, standing on your toes to press your lips to his. He tasted like butterbeer and laughter, his lips warm against yours despite the chill in the air.

Around you, the fireworks continued to burst in brilliant waves of colour—and when you finally pulled away, Fred was grinning again, his lopsided smile even more dazzling in the firework-lit night. “Next year,” he said, his tone edging back into a familiar playfulness, “I resolve to make you laugh at least twice as much. Shouldn’t be too hard—I’m brilliant, you know.”

“You’re something, alright,” you replied, shaking your head at him fondly. The words were laced with affection, and Fred clearly heard it, because he squeezed your hand tighter.

“Happy New Year, love,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.

“Happy New Year, Fred,” you replied, leaning into his warmth as another firework burst overhead, painting the night sky in silver and blue. For this one perfect moment, the world felt safe and whole, and the future could wait until tomorrow.

#☆—𝑪𝑬𝑪𝑬 𝑾𝑹𝑰𝑻𝑬𝑺.#fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x fem!reader #fred weasley x you #fred weasley drabble #fred weasley one shot #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley #fluff

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ha-rinrin · 7 months ago

Text

CHRISTMAS SPECIAL

Summary: Jinx and Isha still believe in Santa, and you’re the magic behind, making sure everything goes perfectly.

Pairing: Jinx x Fem!reader

Wordcount: 2.4k

Authors note: Happy early Christmas everyone!! hope you guys get a lot of presents and love 🤍

It was Christmas Eve in the heart of Zaun, and while the streets outside were cold and busy, the warmth inside your home was a stark contrast. The fire crackled in the fireplace, casting a cozy glow across the room. You were curled up on the couch, attempting to relax, but your attention kept being pulled to the two most excited people in the house.

Isha, though silent, was practically vibrating with anticipation, her eyes wide and hands fluttering with excitement as she signed rapidly to Jinx, who was already animatedly responding in kind.

"I swear, I can hear him coming!" Jinx grinned, wearing a ridiculously oversized Santa hat and bouncing around as she set up little decorations around the room. She paused dramatically, giving you an exaggerated look. "You do believe in Santa, right? Because if you don't, I might have to have a little chat with you, and it’s gonna be uncomfortable."

Isha signed something to you then, her eyes sparkling, and you read it aloud, "She says Santa will bring the best presents. He’s real, right?"

You smiled, amused by their shared enthusiasm. "Well, of course he’s real," you said dryly, your tone teasing. "I mean, if Santa’s not real, who would’ve been sneaking presents under the tree all these years, hmm?" You raised an eyebrow, playing along, though inside you couldn’t help but smile at the sheer magic of the moment.

Isha giggled and nodded eagerly, signing again, this time to Jinx, who laughed loudly and clapped her hands. "Exactly! You heard it here first, folks!" Jinx was fully in her element now. She turned to you, pulling her Santa hat down even further over her eyes. "Santa’s real. And he’s gonna bring a mountain of candy and maybe a new rocket launcher—no promises on that last one, though."

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. "Santa doesn’t bring rocket launchers, Jinx."

Isha signed something that made Jinx pause, looking a little more serious for a moment. "Oh, she’s asking if we can leave out carrots for the reindeer!" Jinx beamed. "Yes, we’re doing it! And the cookies, of course. Gotta have cookies. Maybe a little extra for me when Santa isn’t looking."

As you prepared the cookies, you couldn’t help but marvel at the way the two of them seemed to exist in this shared fantasy world. It was pure joy, the kind of innocent belief that could only come from a child and someone who had never quite lost her own sense of wonder, even as chaotic as she could be.

You smiled softly as you watched Isha going to her room to curl up under her blankets, still trying her hardest to keep her eyes open. Her little hands were tucked under her head, her gaze occasionally darting to the window, waiting for a sign of Santa’s arrival. You gently adjusted her covers, brushing a few stray locks of hair away from her face.

"Isha, honey, you have to sleep," you whispered, brushing your hand over her cheek. She shook her head stubbornly, eyes fluttering but not quite closing. Her hands signed something, and you chuckled, reading it aloud. "She says she’ll only sleep if she sees Santa's sleigh."

"Tell her Santa can’t come if she’s awake," Jinx chimed in, appearing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a dramatic sigh. She was still wearing that oversized Santa hat, her face lit up with excitement. "Santa’s not gonna come if she’s spying on him, toots. He needs some quiet so he can sneak in."

Isha shot her a playful glare, but it didn’t last long. Her eyelids were growing heavier by the second, and before you knew it, her little sighs slowed, her breath deepening as sleep finally claimed her.

You smiled as you watched her drift off, and Jinx tiptoed over to the bed, leaning down to plant a soft kiss on Isha's forehead. "Goodnight, kiddo. Sweet dreams, okay? Santa’s on his way."

Jinx stood up, her eyes gleaming with that familiar excitement. "Alright, toots, it's go time!" She grinned at you, clearly eager to keep the Christmas magic alive for the both of you. "We gotta make sure everything’s perfect for Santa! I’m talking cookies, carrots for the reindeer, and maybe some milk, too"

You laughed softly, as you both made your way to the living room, where the tree sparkled with lights. The soft glow of the fire in the chimney filled the room with a peaceful warmth, and for a moment, you felt a wave of contentment wash over you. It was moments like these that made everything feel magical.

Jinx carefully arranged the cookies, placing them on a plate next to the tree, her movements full of purpose. "Carrots for the reindeer, right?" she asked, holding up a bunch she’d already prepared, before setting them neatly next to the fireplace. "They need their snacks for the ride."

She stepped back to admire her work, hands on her hips, nodding to herself. "Okay, okay, everything’s perfect. Now we just need to sleep, or Santa’s not gonna come. We gotta let him do his thing!"

You looked over at her, her eyes sparkling with anticipation, you found yourself caught up in her joy. There was something about the way Jinx saw the world, so full of wonder and possibility, that made everything feel like it had a little extra magic.

With a sigh, you smiled and took her hand. "Alright, alright. We’ll go to sleep. But I’m warning you, Santa doesn’t like it when you snore too loud."

Jinx laughed, pulling you toward the bedroom with a playful grin. "Hey, I’m quiet! i don’t even snore!, i don’t know what you’re talking about, toots" She joked as you both snuck into bed, the warmth from the blankets wrapping around you both.

You couldn’t help but smile as you turned off the lights, the soft flicker of the fireplace in the other room casting a gentle glow. Jinx snuggled close to you, her face still glowing with excitement. "Merry Christmas, toots," she whispered, squeezing your hand.

"Merry Christmas, love," you whispered back, feeling the magic of the night settle around you like a soft blanket. And as you closed your eyes, you couldn't help but believe that, for Isha and Jinx at least, Santa really was on his way.

The room was quiet, save for the steady rhythm of Jinx's soft breathing beside you. She had finally drifted into a peaceful sleep, her form curled up beside you under the thick blankets. The firelight flickered gently in the corner, casting long shadows on the walls.

You lay there for a while, listening to Jinx’s muffled snores, her face blissfully relaxed in a way that made you smile. Slowly, you slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb her, and padded quietly toward the door. The excitement of the night wasn’t quite over yet.

As you tiptoed down the hall, a mischievous grin tugged at your lips. You had a plan tonight, and Sevika was already waiting for you in the living room. It was the same tradition you two had kept up for years, even though you were both far past the age of believing in Santa. But you couldn’t resist the fun of making it feel real for Isha—and Jinx, of course, who never really grew out of her childlike wonder.

You rounded the corner into the living room, and there she was, leaning casually against the fireplace, half-eaten cookies in one hand and a drink of milk in the other. Sevika’s eyes met yours, and she raised an eyebrow with a grin, clearly enjoying herself.

“Sevika,” you whispered, stepping in the room with a playful smirk. “What are you doing standing there, eating all the cookies and drinking the milk?”

Sevika looked up, unfazed, with a dramatic sigh. “I’m just making sure that Santa keeps his energy up for the big night,” she said, a small chuckle escaping her as she picked up another carrot and took a bite. “Besides, you don’t want Santa running on empty, do you?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of her, leaning casually against the fireplace as if she were the one delivering the presents. “Right,” you said, crossing your arms. “You and me both know Santa’s going to be mad at you for raiding his stash. But fine, fine, get your fix, but we have a job to do.”

Sevika wiped her mouth, grinning. “You’re right. Let’s get this over with.”

She followed you toward the pile of gifts hidden in a closet, both of you moving with a practiced ease. You’d been planning this for weeks, carefully choosing the right presents for Isha and Jinx, getting the things from their Christmas list, and now it was time to put them under the tree.

Sevika chuckled as she helped you arrange the gifts, a little smirk playing on her lips. “I can’t believe we’re still doing this for an adult,” she said, shaking her head as she set a large box under the tree.

“Hey,” you said, half-laughing, “we’re not doing it for just Jinx. It’s for Isha too. She’ll love it.”

“I guess that’s true,” Sevika said, her voice softening just a little as she glanced at the sleeping child’s room down the hall. “Can’t help but want to see their faces when they wake up.”

You nodded, your heart light as you finished setting up the last of the gifts. “Exactly. I just love seeing them excited, even if we’re the ones pulling the strings behind the scenes.”

Sevika leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms. “Yeah, well, you’re lucky I’ve got a soft spot for Christmas magic. Next year, though, I’m leaving all the work to you.”

You shot her a playful look. “Deal. I’ll take all the credit”

The two of you shared a quiet laugh before you finally stepped back, admiring the tree, the gifts stacked neatly beneath it. The milk was mostly gone, the cookies nearly finished, and the carrots all but devoured. It was a picture-perfect holiday moment—one that you were both proud of.

“Alright,” you said softly, standing up and brushing your hands together. “Everything’s set. We’d better get out of here before Jinx wakes up and catches us.”

“Agreed.” Sevika winked at you. “Merry Christmas, kiddo.”

“Merry Christmas, Sevika” you replied with a grin. “Now let’s get back to bed before she notices we’re gone.”

As the two of you quietly snuck back to your rooms, the excitement of the night still buzzing through your veins, you knew that tomorrow would be filled with even more joy. The look on Jinx and Isha’s faces when they saw the tree in the morning would be worth every bit of sneaky work you’d done tonight.

The morning sun barely filtered through the thick curtains, casting soft light over the room. You were still nestled under the blankets, trying to cling to those last few moments of sleep when a loud voice jolted you awake.

“MARRRRY CHRIIIISSSSTMAS, EVERYONE!” Jinx’s voice rang out through the space like an explosion of energy. You felt the bed shift as she bounced on it, practically vibrating with excitement. “TIME TO SEE IF SANTA CAME!”

Before you could even rub the sleep from your eyes, she was already off the bed, sprinting toward ishas room, completely disregarding the noise she was making. You heard her knocking on the door, “ISHA! COME SEE IF SANTA CAME!”

You groaned, half-laughing to yourself, knowing full well there was no point in trying to go back to sleep. Slowly, you dragged yourself out of bed and followed the excitement that was spilling out into the living space.

As you reached the room, you found Jinx already knocking on the door with exaggerated flair. Isha, her eyes still heavy with sleep but slowly waking up, crawled out of her bed as soon as she noticed Jinx’s face lit with excitement. She gave you a sleepy smile before following Jinx, who pulled her along, her small hand clasped tightly in Jinx’s.

“Look! Look, Isha!” Jinx practically shouted, her excitement nearly overflowing. You followed them into the living room, still trying to shake off the drowsiness, but a smile tugged at your lips when you saw them both staring in awe at the scene under the tree.

Isha’s eyes widened in silent awe, her hands fluttering with excitement as she pointed toward the empty plates where cookies and milk had been. Jinx kneeled beside the plates, inspecting them with a gleam in her eyes. “See? I told you they needed the snacks to keep going!” she said, lifting the empty milk glass. “Reindeer are like us—super hungry!”

Just then, Sevika emerged from the kitchen, holding a plate with a couple of the leftover cookies and sipping from a mug of coffee. She paused when she noticed the excited scene, an eyebrow raising at the display. "Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Christmas does bring out the kid in everyone,” she commented, then took another sip of her coffee like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. “Sevika, really? You’re just going to stand there drinking coffee while we’re all here in a Christmas frenzy?”

Sevika shrugged, unfazed. “Someone’s gotta stay sane around here,” she said with a smirk, taking another sip from her mug. "Can’t be all about cookies and milk. A girl’s gotta have her coffee."

Isha signed something quickly, looking between you, Jinx, and Sevika. You translated for her, “She says she’s glad Santa’s real.”

Jinx, ever the bundle of energy, jumped up. “You heard it here first, folks!” she declared with a wide grin. “Santa is real, and he’s got a serious appetite! Look at those empty plates!” She looked at Sevika with mock seriousness. “And I’m gonna need a little more carrot next year. Maybe some cookies, too.”

Sevika rolled her eyes but kept her grin. “Yeah, yeah. More cookies next year.”

“Alright!” Jinx grinned, tugging Isha over to the tree. “Now that we know Santa came, let’s open presents!”

You stood back, watching as the two of them eagerly circled the tree, their faces lit up with pure joy and excitement. You smiled, your heart warm from the moment. It was messy and chaotic, but it was perfect. Christmas in your house with your little family—Jinx, Isha, and even Sevika—was exactly what you’d dreamed of.

“Let’s get started,” you said with a smile, kneeling down beside them.

The three of them eagerly started opening presents, and you couldn’t help but feel like everything was just as it should be. The holiday magic was alive and well, and for a moment, nothing else mattered.

#jinx arcane #jinx x reader #jinx x y/n #jinx/you #arcane jinx #jinx x fem!reader #jinx posting #jinx lol #jinx league of legends

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littlelamy · 7 months ago

Note

heyy! i love your writing! do you think you could do one with reader and drew where they’re getting a bit freaky but reader can’t work out drew’s belt and they have a laugh about it! thank youuu

author's note: i hope you like it! credits to @mochilly for the the divider <3

the room was warm, the soft glow of the lamp casting just enough light to highlight the mischievous smirk on drew’s face. his lips were tracing along your jaw, hands roaming your waist, the tension between you two practically crackling in the air. your fingers slid down his chest, determined to rid him of the pesky belt keeping you from what you really wanted.

“why the fuck won’t this come off?” you muttered under your breath, fumbling with the buckle.

drew pulled back slightly, eyebrows raising as he looked down at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “seriously? it’s just a belt, babe. not rocket science.”

you glared up at him, your frustration only growing. “this thing is more secure than a damn safe. what is this, a chastity belt? who even makes shit like this?”

he threw his head back, laughing that deep, contagious laugh that both annoyed and endeared you in the moment. “you’re killing me right now,” he said between chuckles. “do you want me to do it for you?”

“no!” you snapped, though your tone held more frustration than malice. you tugged harder, the stubborn clasp refusing to budge. “i’ve got this.”

drew leaned back on his elbows, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “oh, i’m sure you do,” he teased, his eyes glinting with amusement. “take your time, though. i’m not going anywhere.”

“you’re such an ass,” you shot back, your cheeks heating as you yanked at the belt. “why does this stupid thing hate me?”

“maybe it’s trying to protect me,” he joked, biting his bottom lip as he fought back another laugh.

“protect you?” you scoffed, finally managing to loosen the buckle. “from what? your incredibly horny girlfriend?”

“exactly,” he said with a grin, sitting up as you finally ripped the belt free and tossed it dramatically to the floor.

“there. fuck you, belt,” you muttered triumphantly.

drew’s hands were on your hips in an instant, pulling you onto his lap, his breath warm against your ear. “i don’t think the belt’s the one you’re about to fuck,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

you couldn’t help but laugh, swatting at his chest. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet, you love me,” he shot back, his lips brushing yours before you both gave in to the heat of the moment, laughter dissolving into something much more intoxicating.

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel l @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah

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infinitelystrangemachinex · 8 months ago

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Mel has magic armor and chose to save Jayce, but she's keeping it a secret from him

First frame of episode 1: something is glowing gold

The camera is blurry because this is Jayce's POV and he's reeling from the explosion. The camera focuses enough to let us see Jayce's face. He's holding Mel. We see her gold pieces in the same location as the glowing gold parts in the previous frame.

Jayce focuses. He clearly doesn't know how he ended up in this position. He blinks in confusion, then sees Mel.

Mel's back is still to the window. Jinx's rocket literally was going to hit her directly in the back. Jayce is in the wrong place to have put his body between her and the rocket.

We're made to think that Jayce, being a big strong guy, somehow protected Mel from the explosion. But there's nothing a human body can do against a whole entire rocket. How did Mel survive, but also, how did Jayce survive? His survivor's guilt torments him.

Mel is sad for him and tells him simply that it's senseless that one person survives while another person dies or is injured. The quickest way out of needing to provide an explanation is to point out that no explanation is needed.

Jayce probably thinks that he, like the audience is supposed to believe, had a hand in protecting Mel, because he doesn't wonder how Mel survived.

Mel's gold parts were glowing. It's definitely armor. And for SOME REASON, she's not telling Jayce. And I really want to know what that reason is. And I would also really like to know how Mel feels about having had the power to choose one person to save, because I can think of one feeling that's worse than survivor's guilt.

One final piece of proof:

In the Council scene in episode 1, there's a fair amount of emphasis placed on the stone floor, which is mostly destroyed and riddled with cracks. This is to emphasize Salo's wheelchair as well as Piltover and its Council literally crumbling under their feet. However:

In the lower right corner, we see a PERFECT CIRCLE of untouched stone. Even that part of the Council table is intact. Everything else is cracked or destroyed or covered in ash. But not the spot where Mel and Jayce were. Also recall that Fortiche has said that a perfect circle represents the Arcane.

We get a glimpse of it again in episode 3:

The floor is cracked everywhere except in the lower right.

#arcane #mel medarda #jayce talis #mel arcane #spoilers #arcane spoilers #arcane s2 #mel is probably just trying to let jayce get past his grief and survivor's guilt first #but i kind of hope there's another reason and that her armor is something VERY SPECIAL #i love mel so much what is going on in my girl's head

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huntfeld · 7 months ago

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Home for the Holidays

Pairing: Vi x Reader

Summary: Vi and her family spend their first Christmas with the reader’s, finding warmth, laughter, and a sense of belonging in each other’s company.

———

The house buzzed with holiday energy. Twinkling lights adorned the tree, the fireplace cast a golden glow, and the smell of cinnamon and pine filled the air. Laughter and the sound of cookie decorating echoed from the kitchen while Jinx darted around the living room, a whirlwind of energy.

“This place is so shiny,” Jinx said, her wide, Shimmer-pink eyes darting to every ornament on the tree. “You’ve got, like, fifty tiny explosions hanging here. I love it!”

Isha, sitting cross-legged by the window with a steaming mug of cocoa, let out a soft hum of approval. She gave a small nod, her lips quirking into a faint smile as she traced the rim of her mug with a finger.

“They’re not explosions, Jinx,” Vi said with a smirk, leaning casually against the back of the couch. “They’re just lights.” She tilted her head toward Isha. “Right?”

Isha rolled her eyes playfully and gave Vi a thumbs-up, the corner of her mouth twitching in quiet amusement.

Jinx wasn’t paying attention anymore. She was too busy stealing a candy cane from the counter. “Bet I could turn this into a rocket launcher,” she mused, twirling it between her fingers.

“Please don’t,” you said, laughing as you caught her eye. “My mom just fixed the kitchen wall last week.”

“Fine, fine,” Jinx relented, plopping onto the couch and sprawling across it dramatically. “But only because it’s Christmas.”

Vi crossed the room to stand beside you, slipping her hand into yours. She leaned down, her voice soft enough that only you could hear. “Your family’s great. They’re treating us like we’ve been here forever.”

You smiled, lacing your fingers through hers. “That’s because you belong here.”

Her grip tightened ever so slightly, her thumb brushing over yours. “I’ve never really felt like I belonged anywhere before.”

“Well, now you do,” you said softly, leaning your head on her shoulder.

For a moment, you both stayed like that, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s presence. Vi shifted slightly, turning to look down at you with a playful grin.

“You know,” she said, “there’s one thing missing from this whole ‘belonging’ thing.”

“And what’s that?” you asked with a smirk, knowing full well what she meant.

Without another word, Vi cupped your cheek and leaned down to kiss you—soft at first, then deeper, her lips warm and steady against yours.

“Oh, gross!” Jinx’s voice cut through the moment like a firecracker. “Get a room, you two!”

Vi pulled back just enough to glare at her sister, her cheeks flushed pink. “You could’ve just… looked away, Jinx.”

“Uh, no way!” Jinx retorted, throwing a blanket over her head like a makeshift cloak. “You two were practically oozing mushy love goo all over the couch!” She peeked out from under the blanket with a devilish grin. “And Vi, you’re blushing. That’s weird. Stop that.”

“I’m not blushing!” Vi shot back, her voice raising an octave.

“You totally are!” Jinx sang, tossing a pillow in Vi’s direction. “Look at her! Little Miss Tough Girl caught red-handed!”

You couldn’t help but laugh, and Vi groaned dramatically, burying her face against your shoulder. “I swear, she was easier to deal with when she was trying to blow things up.”

“You love me!” Jinx called, her voice muffled from beneath her blanket.

“Unfortunately!” Vi shouted back, but her lips quirked into a small smile as she turned her attention back to you. “Where were we?”

“Right about here,” you said, tugging her in for another kiss.

Your mom peeked in from the kitchen, her hands dusted with flour. “Vi! Jinx! Isha! Come grab cookies before the kids get to them!”

Jinx sprang up immediately, her pink eyes glowing faintly as she snatched a cookie with exaggerated speed. “I like her,” she said, pointing at your mom with a cookie in hand.

Your mom laughed, ruffling Jinx’s hair affectionately. “I like you too, sweetie.”

Isha followed with a curious tilt of her head. She took a cookie and held it up with a questioning look as if asking, Is this homemade?

Your mom nodded enthusiastically, and Isha’s expression brightened. She gave a little approving hum before taking a bite, her eyes crinkling at the corners in delight.

Vi leaned closer to you as the others mingled. “You sure we’re not too much for your family?”

“Are you kidding?” you whispered back, smiling as you watched your dad teach Isha how to play a board game, while Jinx entertained your cousins with wild stories. “You all fit perfectly.”

Later, as the house settled into a calmer rhythm, Vi pulled you aside into a quieter corner. The glow of the Christmas tree painted soft highlights on her face as she wrapped her arms around you.

“You really mean it? About us belonging here?” she asked, her voice low and hesitant.

You reached up to cup her cheek, your thumb tracing the faint scar along her cheekbone. “Of course I mean it, Vi. My family loves you. And I…” You paused, your voice catching slightly before continuing. “I love you.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she just stared at you, as if trying to process the words. Then, with a soft smile, she leaned in, pressing her forehead to yours. “I love you too,” she whispered. “More than I can even explain.”

The two of you stayed like that, the world fading away until it was just you, her, and the soft twinkle of lights.

As the night wound down and snow began to fall outside, the house grew quieter. Jinx was curled up on the couch under a blanket, her pink eyes half-lidded as the energy of the day finally caught up with her. Isha sat nearby, flipping through a book she’d found on your family’s shelf, occasionally nodding in approval at something she read.

Vi sat with you in front of the fire, her arm wrapped around your shoulders as you both watched the embers dance. She tilted her head to rest against yours, her fingers lazily tracing circles on your arm.

“You know,” she murmured, her voice a low rumble, “this might be the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”

“Just wait,” you teased lightly. “You haven’t even opened your present yet.”

She chuckled, the sound vibrating through you. “You’ve already given me the best gift, babe.” She kissed the top of your head, her lips lingering as if to seal the moment. “You’ve given me a home.”

For the first time in years, Vi—and her unconventional family—felt like they had truly found their place.

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meleeyz · 8 months ago

Text

୭ 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦 𝗧𝗢 𝗙𝗜𝗫 ˚. ᵎᵎ

ekko 𝒙 fem!reader

୨୧ English is not my first language, so I regret in advance if something reads weird or is misspelled

୨୧ Bro is going to fix the mess he made with his family from another dimension 🙏

୨୧ This is not exactly the result of what I wanted but it works ;)

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

The sun dipped below the horizon, its last golden rays painting the sky in soft shades of pink and lavender. The walk back felt longer than usual, the weight of the day pressing on your shoulders. The afternoon had passed in a whirlwind of preparations for Violet’s birthday—small, meaningful plans to make tomorrow special.

But now, exhaustion clung to you like a second skin. Inside the house, the warmth of home embraced you. Dinner had been a blur—a simple meal shared with your children before they yawned and rubbed their eyes, ready for bed.

After clearing up, you found Wyeth in his room, the soft glow of his bedside lamp casting a gentle light over the space. He sat cross-legged on his bed, with his broken rocket cradled in his small hands.

You paused in the doorway for a moment, taking in the sight. His furrowed brow and the way his little fingers traced over the toy’s worn edges tugged at your heart. Quietly, you stepped into the room and sat on the edge of his bed.

"Hey there, sweetheart," you said softly, brushing your hand over his cheek.

Wyeth looked up at you, his wide eyes searching your face for reassurance.

"Mommy," he began, his voice a small whisper. “Is Daddy mad at me?”

The question caught you off guard, but you schooled your features into a gentle smile.

“Mad at you?” you asked, feigning lightness. “Why would you think that?”

His shoulders slumped, and he set the rocket aside, its bent fin catching the lamplight.

“I’ve been bad lately,” he admitted, his voice trembling. “Maybe that’s why…”

“Sweetheart, no.” you interrupted, leaning in to cup his face in your hands. “Daddy isn’t mad at you. He’s just tired, that’s all. He’s been working really hard and sometimes when grown-ups work too much, they get a little grumpy. But it’s not your fault, okay?”

Wyeth hesitated, his small brow still creased, but eventually he nodded.

“Okay” he whispered.You smiled and kissed his forehead, lingering just long enough for him to feel the warmth of your love.

“Goodnight, my little rocket man. Sweet dreams.”

“Goodnight, Mommy,” he murmured, burrowing under his sheets and clutching his blanket close.

You stood, dimming the lamp as you left the room, glancing back to see him already drifting off, the broken rocket abandoned beside him.

In your own room, the silence was heavier. You moved through the motions of preparing for bed, your body exhausted but your mind far from settled. As you pulled back the covers, your eyes flicked to the window. Outside, the night stretched endlessly, dark and quiet. Still, there was no sign of Ekko.

A sigh slipped from your lips as you turned to Violet’s crib. You smiled faintly. She slept soundly, her tiny chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, her soft coos occasionally breaking the quiet.

Finally, you climbed into bed. The room felt emptier than it should, the absence of Ekko gnawing at you in ways you didn’t want to admit. Your thoughts lingered on him, on the tension from earlier, on the strange distance that had settled between you. As sleep began to pull you under, you found yourself hoping that, come morning, things would feel a little less heavy.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

The house was quiet as Ekko slipped inside, the soft creak of the door barely audible over the hum of crickets outside. He paused in the entryway, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, his breath hitching as he looked around.

He had to ask Heimerdinger where his own house was. The thought stung, but as he stood there, surrounded by warm tones and small, comforting touches, a sense of belonging crept in. This was his home—at least, it was for the Ekko who lived here.

The garden outside had been beautiful, a serene patch of green dotted with soft, colorful flowers and lanterns. Inside, the air smelled faintly of lavender and something sweet, a scent that grounded him as he moved deeper into the house.

Pictures lined the walls and shelves, drawing his gaze. Each frame seemed to tell a story, a life lived in a world so far removed from his own. His steps slowed as he reached for one in particular: a photo of his wedding day.

The image stopped him cold, his stomach flipping in a way he hadn’t expected. You looked radiant, your smile wide and bright as you leaned into him, your hands entwined. Ekko—this Ekko—was grinning from ear to ear, his expression caught somewhere between elation and disbelief.

His fingers brushed over the ring on his finger. He could tell it was handmade—gold, with delicate carvings of fireflies and his hourglass symbol etched into its surface. Of course, he thought. He probably made it himself, ensuring it was worthy of the person he gave it to. You didn’t deserve anything less.

Ekko chuckled softly, shaking his head. He’d thought about his wedding day before, in fleeting moments between battles and responsibilities, but it always felt like a distant dream. Something he could never afford.

He moved to another photo, this one capturing the moment of Wyeth’s birth. You were in a bed, holding a tiny, wrapped in blankets, your face glowing with exhaustion and joy. Ekko stood beside you, his grin wobbly and his hair a mess, like he’d just finished pacing the room for hours. He could imagine exactly how that had gone—nervous energy radiating off him, snapping at anyone who told him to relax, only to apologize afterward.

Ekko swallowed hard and tore his gaze away, continuing up the stairs.

The walls of the staircase were covered with more pictures. Wyeth as a toddler, clutching a makeshift artifact in his hands; Violet giggling in a field of wildflowers, her chubby cheeks and wide eyes making her look like the cutest baby in the world.

His steps slowed as his chest tightened. The memory of what he’d said earlier came rushing back

Why did I say that?

It wasn’t true. He knew it wasn’t true. You were his wife, those were his babies, and he didn’t doubt that. Not for a second. But the words had spilled out of him, born from the confusion and guilt swirling in his mind.

He clenched his fists, a wave of self-loathing washing over him. He hated the thought of you thinking, even for a moment, that he didn’t want this. That he didn’t want you. He had to fix it. He had to make it right.

When he reached Wyeth’s room, he cracked the door open just enough to peek inside. The boy was sound asleep, curled under his blankets with the broken rocket still resting on the nightstand. Ekko exhaled softly, relief mingling with guilt. He hoped he hadn’t confused the kid too much with his words earlier. Wyeth deserved better.

And then, an idea struck him.

If he wanted to make things right, he couldn’t just apologize. He needed to show you—show all of you—that he was here, that he cared. That no matter how he got here, this was his family.

Ekko closed the door as quietly as he could, slipping back downstairs with a newfound determination. He paused only to glance at the pictures on the wall one more time, steeling himself. Then he slipped out the front door, heading toward Powder’s hideout.

The night air was cool against his skin as he moved through the streets, the city was quiet but alive. He didn’t care if Powder hated him for waking her up; this needed to happen. He couldn’t wait until morning.

By the time he reached the hideout, his heart was pounding—not from exertion, but from the resolve burning inside him. He knocked softly at first, then a little harder when there was no answer.

“Powder,” he called in an urgent cry. “I need your help.”

It didn’t matter how late it was. Ekko wasn’t leaving until he fixed things.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

The morning light filtered through the curtains, warming the room with its golden glow. You stirred slowly, the weight of sleep still heavy on your body. Your hand reached out instinctively, seeking the comforting presence of your husband, but the bed beside you was empty.

The absence hit you harder than you expected. Memories of the previous day lingered in your mind, his words cutting deeper than you wanted to admit. You sat up, running a hand through your head, trying to shake the uneasy feeling creeping up your spine.

It wasn’t until you glanced toward Violet’s crib that the unease turned to panic.

It was empty.

Your heart raced as you threw off the covers and bolted out of the room, your bare feet padding quickly down the hall. The first place you went was Wyeth’s room, pushing the door open with trembling hands.

“Wyeth?” you called, your voice shaking slightly. “Sweetheart, are you in here?”

But the bed was empty, his blankets neatly tucked at the edges.

Your chest tightened. Where were they?

“Violet?” you called, louder this time, your voice echoing through the house as you hurried down the stairs.

You rounded the corner into the dining room, your mind spinning with worst-case scenarios, and froze.

Ekko sat at the table, a knowing grin on his face. A bouquet of fresh flowers sat in the center of the table, their pastel hues soft and welcoming. Beside them was a spread of breakfast—pancakes, fresh fruit, and coffee—all laid out with surprising care.

“Morning,” Ekko said, his tone teasing, as though he hadn’t scared you half to death.

Your panic hadn’t completely subsided.

“Where are the kids?” you demanded, your voice sharp.

His grin widened, his dark eyes dancing with mischief.

“It’s a surprise,” he said simply, leaning back in his chair as if to emphasize how utterly unbothered he was.

Your brow furrowed, a mix of frustration and confusion bubbling to the surface.

“Ekko—”

“You’re cute when you’re worried,” His gaze swept over you, lingering on your sleepwear, and his grin turned decidedly more suggestive. “By the way, you look… incredible this morning.”

Your cheeks burned as his eyes trailed over you with that familiar, almost predatory glint you’d come to know all too well. It was the kind of look that once made your stomach flip in a good way, but now? It just left you reeling.

“Ekko, stop,” you muttered, looking away in an attempt to regain composure. But his playful chuckle made it clear he wasn’t about to let it go.

“Stop what?” he teased, his voice dropping slightly. “Admiring my wife?”

You shot him a sharp look, your emotions tangled in a confusing mess of frustration and something you couldn’t quite name.

“You’re confusing me so much,” you said finally, your voice quiet but firm.

His laugh was soft but rich, and it only made your frustration deepen.

“Good. I like keeping you on your toes,” he said with a wink, leaning forward slightly.

You exhaled, exasperated, wondering not for the first time, What is wrong with this man?

“I’m just trying to make things right,” he said as if he read your mind, his voice softening slightly.

The sincerity in his tone made your heart skip a beat. You wanted to be mad at him, to demand answers, but the warmth in his eyes made it difficult.

Ekko reached for the coffee pot, pouring you a cup with an easy grace that only confused you further.

“Eat first,” he said, sliding the plate of pancakes toward you. “Then I’ll tell you everything. Promise.”

You hesitated, but the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the sight of his earnest smile made it hard to argue. You sighed, picking up your fork. Whatever he was up to, you’d get to the bottom of it soon enough.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

If you thought you were confused before, Ekko’s antics that morning had turned your head into a whirlwind of questions. After changing into a simple but comfortable outfit, you found yourself blindfolded by your husband, his hands gentle yet firm as he secured the cloth over your eyes.

"Ekko," you began, your tone edged with exasperation, "what are you doing? We don’t have time for this. We need to get to The Last Drop and finish setting up for Vi’s birthday."

"Relax," he said smoothly, the grin evident in his voice. "I already have it covered. Trust me."

You sighed, a grunt of disapproval slipping past your lips as he guided you forward with a hand on your arm.

"Trust you? Ekko, you’re lucky I love you."

"Lucky doesn’t even begin to cover it," he teased, laughter bubbling in his throat.

You kept up a stream of complaints the entire way, though your protests were punctuated by the occasional chuckle or muttered threat. His laugh echoed through the space as he steered you with careful precision. After a while, you noticed something odd—your voice echoed more than usual.

"Wait," you said, your pace faltering.

"Are we in the sewers? Ekko, you better not—"

"Shh," he interrupted, and before you could finish your thought, he stopped you. His hands brushed your shoulders, and with one swift movement, he removed the blindfold.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The scene before you seemed to be pulled from the pages of a fairy tale. The air was alive with fireflies and butterflies flitting between the lush greenery. Birds chirped softly from branches above, and in the center of it all stood an enormous tree, its wide canopy casting dappled light over the ground below.

You turned to Ekko, your mouth slightly open in disbelief, but he simply smiled, gesturing for you to take it all in.

Before you could say a word, several silhouettes approached. The first to come bounding into view was Wyeth, his grin stretching from ear to ear. He ran straight to you, wrapping his arms around your legs.

"Mommy!" he exclaimed, practically vibrating with excitement. "Look! Daddy fixed my rocket! He made it better, and now it can fly without breaking anything!” He held up the toy, his joy infectious.

You crouched down to admire the handiwork, running your fingers along the rocket’s smooth edges as Wyeth babbled on.

“And we climbed the tree, Mommy! It’s so tall! You should come see!”

A voice behind him interjected playfully.

“Let your mama breathe, rocket man.”

You looked up to see Powder striding toward you, her blue hair styled into two playful space buns. She carried Violet in a baby carrier strapped to her chest, the little girl now clad in the pastel green dress Powder had shown you the day before. A delicate butterfly charm nestled in her curls added the final touch to her outfit.

"Happy birthday, my sweet Violet," you cooed, leaning in to kiss your baby’s cheek. Violet giggled in response, her tiny hands reaching for you.

“She’s been in full princess mode all morning,” Powder said, rolling her eyes affectionately.

You smiled as you looked around again. Decorations were everywhere—streamers in bright, cheerful colors, balloons that bobbed gently in the breeze, and a large table set up beneath the tree, big enough to seat the whole family. Your heart swelled at the sight.

"Ekko," you began, standing and turning to your husband, "what is this all about?"

He stepped forward, taking your hand with an easy smile.

“What do you mean?” he said, his tone light. “It’s Vi’s birthday, isn’t it?”

You raised an eyebrow, suspicion tinging your voice.

“Right. And you did all of this?”

“Of course,” he said, leading you gently past the table and toward the other side of the massive tree. “Come on. There’s one more thing I want to show you.”

As you rounded the tree, your breath caught again.

There, painted across a wide section of the bark, was a stunning mural. Vibrant colors swirled together to create a picture of your family—Ekko, you, Wyeth, and Violet—all smiling and holding hands beneath the glowing canopy of the tree. The fireflies painted around the edges seemed to dance, their light giving the mural a soft, almost magical quality.

You stepped closer, your fingers brushing over the bark.

“Ekko…” you whispered, unable to find the words.

He smiled, his hand coming to rest lightly on your waist. “It’s us,” he said softly.

“My wife, our babies, and me. The people who mean everything to me.”

You turned to him, emotions swirling in your chest, but before you could respond, he took both of your hands in his. His expression turned serious, his eyes locking onto yours.

“I’m really sorry,” he said, his voice low but steady. “About yesterday. About everything. I don’t know why I said what I said—I felt so strange, so out of it—but I know that doesn’t excuse it.” His grip on your hands tightened slightly, as if anchoring himself to you. “I just want you to know how much I love you. You, Wyeth, Violet. You’re my whole world, and I’m going to make sure today is Violet’s best first birthday ever.”

His words were earnest, his gaze unflinching. He lifted your hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to each of them before leaning forward, aiming to kiss you properly.

Before his lips could meet yours, a familiar voice groaned from behind.

“Ewww!”

Wyeth’s loud protest made you both turn. He stood a few steps away, his face scrunched in exaggerated disgust.

Ekko laughed, scooping the boy up in one swift motion.

“What? You don’t want Mommy and Daddy kissing?”

“No!” Wyeth giggled, squirming as Ekko nuzzled him.

“Well, too bad, but don’t think you’re safe, buddy. I’ve got kisses for you too!”

Wyeth squealed as Ekko peppered his face with kisses, his laughter filling the air. You couldn’t help but join in, tickling his sides as he giggled uncontrollably.

“Okay, okay! Stop!” Wyeth cried, still laughing as he wriggled free.

At that moment, a familiar voice called from the distance.

“Well, look who we have here!”

Wyeth’s head snapped toward the entrance, his eyes lighting up.

“Grandpa Benzo!” he yelled, bolting toward the sound of his grandfather’s voice.

Ekko set his son down and watched him run off before turning back to you. His arms snaked around your waist, pulling you close. His voice dropped to a low murmur, meant only for you.

“Don’t think I’m done with you yet. I’ll leave it pending till tonight.” he said, his tone dripping with playful promise. He winked at you before turning to follow Wyeth, leaving you standing alone by the mural.

You exhaled deeply, hugging yourself as you looked up at the painting. It was vibrant, alive, full of hope and love.

You smiled softly. You chose well.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

tags: @bbybubbles @bookies16 @xelzaria @honeyfewr @bubblegupyy @iwasholic @chaeisbroke @emforjin @itszazouu @kriss-w @moonlight-dreamer04 @iloveavatar @sturngs

#ekko x reader #arcane x reader #arcane season two #ekko fluff #ekko imagines #arcane league of legends #ekko fics

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wibben · 13 days ago

Text

CAREER DAY — NANAMI KENTO

↳ Summary: It's your favorite day of the school year, and you've never met Yuji's father... until now.

↳ WC: 4.2k

↳ AN: my submission for @nanamiweek's Day 1 Papamin prompt! I had such a blast writing this one, I've truly missed my favorite blonde. Perhaps this has the makings for a little mini-collection of Nanami, kid Yuji, and teacher shenanigans.

You’d been up to your eyeballs in glitter, paper cups, and rocket fuel caffeine since six o’clock sharp.

Not a complaint in sight. You adored Bring Your Parent to School Day almost as much as your students did. There was something endlessly endearing about the way they paraded their grown-ups around the classroom like rare Pokémon cards, puffed up with pride, introducing them to friends as if they'd rolled up in a limousine rather than a Subaru.

“This is my mom!” one girl might yell, face luminous with excitement and star-struck eyes. “She does people’s eyebrows.”

Gasps all around. You would barely be able to keep a straight face.

The professions were almost always lost on your second-graders, their tongues tripping merrily over syllables like “chiropractor” and “esthetician” but it didn’t matter. Their awe wasn’t in the job. It was in the magic of presence. That Mom or Dad had stepped out of the nebulous, grown-up world to sit on tiny plastic chairs and drink juice boxes beside them — it made everything feel a little shinier.

You loved it, honestly. A soft, well-earned reprieve from math drills and shoelace catastrophes. It warmed you from the inside out to see the little duos in action — hands clasped, sneakers swinging under desks, pride glowing from every corner.

Most of the parents you’d met already — familiar faces from conferences and after-school sports games, or quick hellos in the pickup line. The day was as much about touching base with them as it was about stepping into the background and letting the kids run the show.

Except for one unfamiliar face paired to a brand new name.

Yuji Itadori was new this year. A mid-year transfer who had, miraculously, skipped all the usual hurdles and growing pains of social integration. No sulking in the corner, no anxiety-stricken tugs on your sleeve. The boy had walked in, grinned at you with gapped and missing teeth, and within forty-eight hours had more friends than you could count — probably even more than you had yourself.

You hadn’t met his father. Radio silence on that front aside from slips and papers returned signed in neat calligraphy, and one brief, clipped phone call before Yuji’s first day. The mysterious Mr. Nanami remained just that: a mystery.

But Yuji wrote his own mythology.

According to him, his dad was very tall, very strong, very good at math, and — most importantly — the best dad in the world.

You’d seen at least four crayon portraits of the man. A scribbled head of blonde hair. Always in a suit. Always holding Yuji’s hand. One even featured a big spotted paddle (sword?), though Yuji was quick to assure you that it wasn’t real. You’d raised a brow and let it slide. You were used to dads in superhero capes and interpretive renditions of fist-fighting monsters. This wasn’t odd.

When the phone rang that night, you’d answered with the upbeat warmth you always offered new parents — a smile in your voice, ready to build that bridge. But Nanami Kento crossed it first.

His tone was even, no-nonsense. Not unfriendly, but certainly not one for pleasantries or menial small-talk.

He informed you, calmly and concisely, that his family was undergoing a period of adjustment.

That if Yuji struggled — academically, socially, or emotionally — you were to contact him immediately.

He thanked you. Briefly. And ended the call with a curt, “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

No mention of a mother.

None from Yuji, either.

You’d read between and colored in enough lines in your career to understand that well enough.

And even in the brevity of those clean, clinical lines of his voice, you caught a glimpse of him — this man Yuji so obviously admired. Serious. Sharp. The kind of parent who showed up and cared, even if not always in person.

Still, you hadn’t expected him to show up at all.

Not until his name appeared on the list for Bring Your Parent to School Day.

And certainly not with the kind of presence that would make you double-check the dress you wore that morning.

You’d been welcoming parents for the last twenty-five minutes, and each one brought with them another blur of motion — squeaky sneakers pelting down the linoleum hallway, the slap of a hand against the doorframe, a gleeful shriek of your name. You’d pop your head out with a wide smile, crouching low to greet each student like your own, your voice warm and sunflower-bright.

“Good morning!”

A gentle pat on the back, and off they’d go — nudged toward the long folding table piled high with boxed donuts, pastries, and room temperature juice boxes. You’d done your best to make this morning a special one within your limited means.

The parents made for an even more eclectic bunch than their children. Some arrived in scrubs, others in hard hats, mud-streaked boots trailing across your clean rug (you winced, mentally tabbing another steam-clean rental).

One mother came in juggling mannequin heads. Another brought a stethoscope, which she graciously let the kids try on. And one father — clearly playing for keeps — arrived with a black lab from the fire station in tow. The dog wriggled and basked in the attention of twenty sticky-fingered admirers, tail a blur like an overdriven metronome.

You would definitely have to steam clean the rug.

There was always one family that stole the spotlight, and this year's frontrunner had all but cinched it with four paws and a lolling tongue. That was hardly fair play.

Still, as you subtly ushered parents toward the foam cups and coffee station, you couldn’t help but notice one bright face conspicuously missing. Yuji Itadori wasn’t exactly the type to blend in, and he’d never missed a day of school.

You frowned, glancing up at the wall clock just as the minute hand slipped neatly into place.

8:29.

Right on cue, the hallway outside your classroom erupted.

There was a screech — rubber soles skidding like brakes on blacktop — and then Yuji exploded into the room with the exuberance and subtlety of a category five hurricane, sending art projects fluttering and bulletin boards rattling in his wake. He collided into your legs and wrapped himself around them.

“Told you we were gonna be late!” he howled, already twisting to glare over his shoulder.

You barely had time to ruffle his hair before a second voice — measured, calm, and cut from a different cloth entirely — followed behind.

“And I told you we would be right on time.”

The clock ticked. 8:30 on the dot.

“And we are.”

The crisp click of dress shoes in long, confident strides heralded the arrival of a man you’d heard so much about, even if written in the strokes that belonged in something as fantastical as The Odyssey.

Brown leather shoes shined within an inch of their life, gleaming like mirrors beneath long legs dressed in tailored beige — an unusual suit color, but you decided not an unflattering one. It was immaculate. Pressed. And the faint creases at the elbows and knees were the only lifeline cast to save you from the broad chest and shoulders beneath his jacket, and his face—

What did Yuji say his dad did for work again…?

You couldn’t tell. He came empty-handed without props or costume, only deepening the mystery and leaving you to your own intrigued speculation.

A model, maybe. Editorial spreads. GQ. Gentleman’s Digest, something. It had to be.

You were staring. You were still smiling and you were still staring, and at some point Yuji had un-velcroed himself from your legs and launched into a new tirade, tugging eagerly at his fathers hand.

“I wanna show you my art! And my favorite toys, and all my friends, and—oh! Nanamin, there’s a dog!”

Nanami who’d been looking at you turned to his son and took a knee, and you witnessed a 3-second timelapse of glacial melting in the stern lines of his face. His eyes went soft and his mouth untensed into the suggestion of a smile.

“I’ll look at everything in a moment,” he said, voice gentled for Yuji alone. “May I speak with your teacher first?”

You nodded encouragingly, voice tugging itself back into your throat.

“Why don’t you grab some breakfast real quick, Yuji? Then we’ll get started.”

He peeled away, drawn to the scent of sugar like a moth to flame, and behind your back came the cacophony of reunion as if it had been years and not yesterday since his classmates had seen him last. You smiled as Nanami stood, the gentleness in his expression already evaporated. Not unkind, but compartmentalized.

His warmth was not meant for you. But rather than snubbed, you felt undeniably endeared by such uninhibited paternal adoration.

“You must be Mr. Nanami,” you greeted amicably, a hand already outstretched to grasp his with a welcoming tilt of your head. He met your handshake with a firm grip, and you self-consciously tightened your own. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All good things, I hope.”

His voice was low — husky with fatigue but smooth enough to suggest that this was just the way he always sounded. He looked tired. Moved like he’d made peace with it. You figured he’d just been designed that way — quiet, composed, and just slightly too serious for a room filled with googly eyes and glitter glue.

“Only the best,” you assured with a smile.

There was a small pause. Not awkward — just considered.

“Thank you,” he said at last. “Yuji speaks about you often. It’s clear he feels safe here.”

It was rare to receive gratitude for your efforts with your students, and rarer still for it to be delivered with such conclusivity. Non-effusive, Nanami’s appreciation was simply a fact, a fact which made it feel all the more sincere in its lack of grandiosity.

Your smile softened. “That means a lot. He’s a great kid, you must be really proud.”

“I am.”

Just like that, it passed — his gaze shifted briefly behind you and his mouth twitched, a convection between an exasperated smile and down-turned fluster, already slipping past you. “Yuji! Wash your hands before eating if you’re going to pet the dog—“ * The morning began in earnest not long after you pressed a conciliatory coffee into Nanami’s hands. Chairs shuffled and screeched into a half-circle and name tags were peeled from their sticker sheets and affixed to breast pockets, labels, scrubs, and sleeves. You ran a quick welcome with your own steaming espresso in hand (god knows you needed it) before handing the floor over to the parents.

Suddenly your second grade classroom was a parade of bladeless scalpels and stethoscopes, a menagerie of machinery and manicure sets. Laughter bloomed bright and uninhibited in the kids as each grown-up took their turn in the spotlight, answering questions as palatably as possible for their innocent audience.

You knew one mother was a cardiovascular surgeon, but in front of the class she simply said, “I help hearts feel better when they’re sick,” folding a model valve between her fingers. The lawyer in the corner — slim briefcase at his feet, a heavy gavel making its rounds like a party favor — told them he made sure “bad guys went to jail.” No mention, of course, of the murder trial he’d wrapped up the week prior.

You encouraged questions, and your students — bless their lack of tact — took you at your word. The shy ones curled against a parent’s leg with owlish eyes, while the bolder kids launched a barrage of increasingly personal inquiries: Has anyone died? Have you ever been to jail? Has your dog ever peed in the fire truck? You did your best to redirect the worst of them, gently steering the conversation away from blood and bladder-related incidents.

And through it all, Nanami watched it unfold. Tucked into one of the red plastic chairs you’d borrowed from the snack table, he looked like he might snap the thing in half just by breathing too hard. His limbs folded into reluctant submission up toward his chest, tragically origamied, the entire chair tilting forward with each shift. He’d finished his coffee by then and now quietly sipped on a comically tiny juice box.

Stone-faced, but not indifferent. His gaze tracked each speaker with judicial interest. And when the air grew too thick with awkward silence after a hesitant finish, it was Nanami who occasionally lifted one long arm to ask a polite question — enough to nudge things back into motion and, you suspected by the nature of some of his questions, simply to satisfy his own curiosity of the subject. You liked him for that.

“Alright…!” You clapped your hands. “Yuji, why don’t you send your dad up here next?”

Yuji’s eyes blew wide, his mouth popping open in an exaggerated ‘O’, then he swung at Nanami’s arm, batting at him and tugging on his sleeves.

“Gogogo!” he whisper-shouted.

Nanami looked up at you and you smiled. You spread your arm wide with a flourishing ‘the floor is yours’ gesture.

Nanami stood, unfolded himself and his ensemble with a smooth brush of his palms over the fabric. He stepped forward to take your place at the front of the room and you happily shifted aside, sitting upon the corner of your desk and crossing your ankles.

From where he stood, a paper caterpillar peered just over the top of his head with big wobbling eyes.

He straightened the cuffs of his jacket and adjusted his tie, pinching the pristine Windsor in his palm and hiking it up to his throat. He scanned the room, meeting eyes, chin down-tilted to examine his under four-foot tall crowd.

“I work in finance,” he began. “Specifically, I manage assets and perform risk assessments on financial portfolios to ensure return on investment, primarily through domestic and international equities.”

A long silence followed. One of the kids in the corner let out a tiny sniffle.

Unperturbed, Nanami pressed on. “What that means is I analyze companies and determine whether it is strategically sound to invest money in their future operations. I also track market fluctuations and perform cost-benefit analysis on various classes of stock.”

You saw it happen in real time — the eyes of your students glazing over like the sticky donuts they’d grubbed from the table. Even a few parents tilted their heads, bewilderment blooming in the stitch of their brows as though suddenly realizing they’d forgotten something on the stove.

One girl leaned sideways to whisper to her mother, “Is he saying math?”

Yuji was practically vibrating in his seat. Elbows on his scuffed knees, chin in both hands, he stared up at his father with the full, undiluted adoration of a boy watching his hero. Nanami could’ve explained the intricacies and importance of counting grains of rice and you were sure Yuji still would’ve looked at him like he’d hung the stars himself.

If Nanami realized his audience was all but lost to him, he didn’t seem to show it. Not when he turned around to face the white board to erase the cheerful doodles of the water cycle drawn by the meteorologist who’d gone before him, nor when he uncapped a black marker and began sketching out a meticulous diagram — boxes and arrows, sloping trend lines in red and blue, neat little yen symbols penned with paradigm precision.

He spoke the whole while, low and steady, detailing the invisible scaffolding that held up the adult world: markets, investments, value over time. He laid out the bones of capitalism, and at points showed his true feelings toward the structure with how he’d slice and jab the marker to make particularly impassioned points. You got the impression this particular machine was one he raged against often.

“And that,” Nanami concluded, recapping the marker and adjusting his tie again, “is the basic structure of my work in a securities firm. Thank you.”

Silence.

Yuji led the charge. Loud, earnest applause that rang out in sharp claps, his face split in a grin wide enough to rival the sun. A few other children joined in, more from peer pressure than understanding, while a mother near the back whispered to another nearby: “God, he’s quite serious, isn’t he?” To which the other nodded, “It’s kind of hot.”

You had to agree.

You clapped along with them, encouraging the display until it naturally died down. “Thank you, Mr. Nanami! That was… incredibly thorough!” You beamed, he looked at you sideways. “Does anyone have any questions for Mr. Nanami?”

You hadn’t expected a single hand to raise… except maybe Yuji. But he instead whirled around in his seat, pleading with wide brown eyes and a trembling lip for any excuse to keep his dad at the center of attention. Because really, what would a bunch of second graders want to know about stock exchange or insider trading? But to your delight, one by one, tiny hands shot up like spring sprouts.

Nanami, too, looked taken aback. He gestured to a boy in the second row.

“Do you have a dog?”

Nanami blinked. “… No.”

There was a ripple of dissatisfaction at that. You saw him shift his weight to the opposite leg as he called on a young girl.

“Are you rich?”

“Depends on how you define it,” he said.

“Do you go to the gym?”

“… Yes.”

“Ohhh,” someone whispered, followed by a murmur of approval as if this, at last, was finally relevant information.

Then the questions poured in:

“Can you lift a car?”

“Do you fight robbers?”

“What’s the strongest thing you’ve ever punched?”

“Can you fight my dad?”

Nanami blinked once. You watched him recalibrate his entire moral framework in real time.

“I don’t make a habit of fighting people’s fathers,” he said.

“But could you?”

That made the corners of his mouth twitch — enough that you could tell he was debating the ethics of indulging a six-year-old’s thirst for chaos.

“I suppose if your father were endangering others, and all other options had been exhausted—”

Helpfully, Yuji shouted: “He could! I know he could!”

You saw that boys father shrink in the back, a sickly sallow overtaking his face. He clearly didn’t fancy his odds.

Nanami glanced at you like he was seeking diplomatic extraction. You gave him a bright, innocent smile and shrugged your shoulders. He should’ve predicted this larger than life reputation set forth by his son with that statistical brain of his.

“They’re very engaged,” you whispered, and he gave you a look that could only be described as deeply disappointed.

Mercifully, after three more questions about whether he could punch through a wall, you finally stepped in with a laugh, clapping your hands to wrangle the brewing chaos. “Okay, okay! Let’s all thank Mr. Nanami for visiting and giving us a peek into his very responsible, very serious job.”

The children groaned their disappointment, already half-convinced he must moonlight as a superhero, but they still chorused their thanks with sticky-fingered enthusiasm. By the end, there was a suspicious sparkle in Nanami’s eye that made you think he may have liked the attention more than he let on. * By the time the final parent wrapped up and the dismissal bell rang, your kids and their short attention spans had all but forgotten about Nanami standing in the back of the room, arms crossed against a tall cabinet, clearly having forsaken his small seat.

You dismissed your class one by one, sent off with folders tucked, backpacks zipped, and final reminders about homework and forgotten lunch boxes as small groups filtered out of the door. The glitter remained in every corner of the room, as did the smell of bleach and acetone from an unfortunate and entirely predictable accident with the fire dog.

Yuji bounced over to collect his things, tugging at his fathers sleeve as they turned to go.

“You forgot to tell them about the time you beat that cursed—“

Nanami coughed. “—Budget shortfall,” he said, the words surgically clipped in two.

Yuji frowned. “That’s not what I was gonna—“

“Cursed budget shortfalls,” Nanami repeated. “They can be quite aggressive.”

Yuji pulled a face, eyes narrowed suspiciously and scampered off to barter holographic stickers by the cubbies. A friend had gotten a shiny tiger, which was decidedly much cooler than his dinosaur.

Nanami hovered by the door a respectful distance from you, his gaze drifting across the emptying classroom. A couple of rogue pencils lay belly-up beneath desks. Someone had left their water bottle weeping onto the reading rug. There was a half eaten donut hooked over the pot of your plant on the windowsill. It seemed he was just as interested in where his son spends his day as the students were in where the adults usually spent theirs.

You watched him quietly. There was something about Nanami Kento that drew you — nothing overt, not even that he had a nice face. But there was something so… artificial about his authenticity. He presented himself as a boring man, dressed in boring colors, with a boring job, and had a voice that could probably put you to sleep. The type that probably ate oatmeal for breakfast every day, and bland conbini meals on the train home every evening. It’s like he was trying to be unassuming, to snag no second-glances.

Frankly, you thought that it was bullshit.

Your intuition was sharp. You knew when your students stole from each other, and could sniff out the culprit in record time. You knew when the dog had actually eaten someone's homework, or if they’d just forgotten it at home. There was something more to Nanami, and you would’ve picked at that thread if you had more time to do so… but curiosity would not kill the cat today.

But there would be other days.

“Thank you for coming,” you said instead, a sly smile in the Cheshire curl of your lip. “You made quite the impression.” Maybe more on you than on the kids.

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” Nanami said.

“Oh it is,” you beamed, gesturing to the boardroom-esque diagram still drawn on the whiteboard. “I think I may be teaching the next generation of stock brokers and market analysts here.”

Nanami grimaced, turning his shoulder away to scrub a hand over his face. “It was a cautionary tale,” he tsked. “They should find something that’s worth doing. Like meteorology. Or baking. Anything but office work. Teaching is a much more rewarding and worthwhile occupation.”

There it was. The little glint of something more. A cautionary tale of slipping into monotony and tedium, suffering a daily slog with no end in sight, a mere cog in a machine that nobody would notice if it suddenly broke off the belt. Your students would notice your absence. Their parents too, if only because of the inconvenience. But who would notice Nanami, one man in a suit standing on a train full of other men in suits?

“Well… it made Yuji’s day,” you suggested, softened — not sharp — with conviction. “In fact, he’s going to talk about this until summer break, I can already tell.”

A preternatural stillness took the business-casual mannequin as he looked over at his son — all spiky pink hair, too-big puffer jacket, trading up his stickers with enough business savvy to make Nanami proud.

Eventually he sighed, heavy like he’d been holding it in all day as he adjusted the strap of his watch. “He mentions you at home,” he said again.

You smiled, no less warmed by the repetition than you were the first time.

“He’s a pleasure to have in class, honestly. I’m really amazed by how well he settled, most kids struggle to acclimate but…” you watched as Yuji hopped in a circle, one shoe on as he wrestled with the other. “Not him!”

Nanami gave a small nod, his gaze still fixed outward but you reckoned his attention was much closer.

“Apparently you give out gummy stars.”

“… Only for exceptional behavior,” you said with a wide grin. “Or sometimes for being unusually charming.”

That got you a glance — dry, inscrutable.

“Then I imagine he’s amassed quite the hoard… and I have you to blame for the frequent sugar highs.”

You weren’t not flirting with him. Subtle enough to fly over his head if he chose not to acknowledge it, and you had no intention of pushing your luck much further. It was a small miracle you’d met the man behind the mythos at all. But you couldn’t resist a final parting shot.

You turned and stood on your toes, reaching for a wicker basket stashed high on a shelf, rifling through crinkly cellophane wrappers to procure one such gummy star. You held out your hand — and found yourself pleasantly surprised when Nanami reached out to accept it.

“For exceptional behavior,” you declared. Or for being unusually charming.

He regarded the gummy with an expression you couldn’t read, his mouth a neutral set frown that you’d noticed seemed to just be his default expression. He didn’t speak, not until his fingers creaked closed around the treat and retreated into his pocket.

A win, you think. One glittering, citrus-sugar coated win.

“Thank you.”

You merely smiled, gracefully bowing out of the tentative curiosity you’d cast in his direction, just in time for Yuji to veer back towards you both.

You said your goodbyes and your “see you next week”s, then with one hand swinging Yuji’s backpack and the other resting steadily atop his head, the last of your stragglers stepped out into the sunny hallway.

You watched them go.

The gummy star was still in Nanami’s pocket.

And you were still smiling like a fool.

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