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bluelockmaniac · 11 months ago

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BITES OF AFFECTION ⋮💋

𝜗𝜚 ft. itoshi rin, itoshi sae, michael kaiser x gn!reader

synopsis. you kiss them by nibbling along a pocky stick .ᐟ

content warning. pet names & lots of making out . 2k wc .

⸝⸝⋮ 𝐈𝐓��𝐒𝐇𝐈 𝐑𝐈𝐍

“what are you doing?”

rin’s frown deepened, his eyes narrowing in curiosity as you straddled his lap, a carton of pocky sticks clutched in your hand. instinctively, his hands quickly settled on your waist to steady you.

“just tryin’ something,” you giggled, unboxing the carton and tearing open the crinkling wrapper. with a cheeky grin, you pulled out one chocolate-coated stick, twirling it playfully before rin's face.

“ready?” you asked, placing the biscuit between your teeth and leaning in slightly.

rin’s brow knitted together in confusion, his hand rising to brush a stray strand of hair away from your face. “for what?”

you rolled your eyes, bringing your hand to his lips and gently pressing his bottom lip down with the pad of your thumb. you maneuvered your mouth to align the plain end of the biscuit between his lips.

“eat.” you commanded, though your voice was muffled by the flavoured biscuit pressed over your tongue.

blinking, he resigned himself to your whim, despite the almost inevitable regret that always seemed to follow in these situations. (un)fortunately for him, this time would prove to be no different.

his hunched over slightly, shifting his hands to your hips as he began to cautiously nibble along the biscuit, maintaining eye contact with you. you smirked, noting the way your boyfriend's nose crinkled in distaste at the flavour of the classic biscuit, while you savoured the rich, chocolatey explosion on your side.

eventually, the stick was reduced to a mere fragment, and your noses were brushing. without a moment's hesitation, you leaned forward, crashing your lips onto his, eliciting an audible gasp from the startled football player.

caught so off-guard, rin– though you hadn't intended it– choked on the remaining piece of pocky in his mouth, impulsively pushing your body away as he struggled.

you instantly detached your lips, disentangling yourself from his lap, watching in concern as he coughed lightly and then buried his face into his hands in embarrassment.

you snorted once you made sure he was alright, quickly springing to your feet and making your way to the kitchen. you opened the cupboard, retrieving a glass, and filled it with water.

he took the glass, shooting you a glare, his ears and cheeks adorned with a rosy shade of pink.

“don't ever do that again,” he muttered, setting the glass of water down on the table with a dramatic thud. his gaze fell on the darned pocky stick packet. he quickly grabbed it and flung it somewhere behind him, away from his sight.

you cupped a hand over your mouth, trying to stifle your laughter, “i–i’m sorry, pft– i didn't think you'd choke on a biscuit, hah–”

“hey.” he cut you off, gently seizing your wrist and pulling you back onto his lap. he turned his head to the side, his eyes fixated on a random spot on the floor, avoiding your gaze.

“if you want a kiss, then just ask.”

⸝⸝⋮ 𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐈 𝐒𝐀𝐄

“these fucking cleats always disappear when i need them!” sae grumbled, pacing back and forth in your shared master bedroom, his eyes scanning every corner of the room for his football cleats.

“mm, i think i’ve ‘sheen them on the shoe rack near the ‘frontch door,” you mumbled through a mouthful, sliding yet another pocky stick into your mouth from the pink, thin paperboard box. you kicked your legs rhythmically against the wooden frame of the bed. “you should look there.”

he paused to look at you, “i already looked there, though.”

“check again?”

“. . . alright.” the door creaked as he exited the bedroom, and you shrugged nonchalantly, stuffing your face full with the strawberry flavoured biscuit.

after a while, he re-entered, holding a pair of white cleats in his hands. the corners of his lips were turned downwards in guilt as he tossed his shoes somewhere on the floor and approached you, ruffling his hair in exasperation.

“i swear on my football career i checked there,” he groaned, collapsing onto the bed beside you. he eyed you from the side before turning his body to face you, reaching out to cradle your cheek. “you still eatin’ that?”

you nodded, inching closer to his touch. swallowing your bite, you pulled out one stick, pushing the strawberry-coated end between his parted lips while you took the flavourless end.

his eyebrow arched but obliged nonetheless, biting along the dipped sweet with you. as soon as you finish two quick bites of your part, just enough to reach the strawberry coating, you noticed sae's face scrunch up, his nose wrinkling in disgust. he hadn't even managed to finish the coated portion.

your boyfriend's fingers glided to your waist and gently pushed you away, his tongue sticking out in disgust. “yuck. this tastes like shit. the chocolate one's better.”

your bottom lip jutted out petulantly as you crossed your arms, glaring at him with narrowed eyes. “it isn't that bad . . . but that's besides the point— we haven't even kissed!”

“what?” he raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly in confusion. “you didn't ask.”

you sighed, “we were supposed to nibble along the pocky till our lips meet, baby.”

his lips curved into a round shape as he stood up. he caught you by surprise, using his index finger to gently push against your chest until you were lying down on the bed. he climbed over you, pressing one knee between your thighs while the other knee nestled on the mattress beside your right leg.

“wanna kiss?”

without a second wasted, you nodded eagerly, your hands sliding up to find where they usually rested on his broad shoulders. you hooked your ankles around his, watching as he dipped down and sealed his glossy lips against yours.

you were going to be the death of him— he was absolutely sure of it.

with the way his mouth was slotted seamlessly against yours, you were almost certain he intended to leave you breathless by the time be was finished, gasping for every last bit of air. your hands moved from his shoulder to cup his face, pulling him even closer to further deepen the kiss.

you gasped softly into his mouth, then pulled away to swipe your hot tongue over his lips. you lifted your head up, your eyes meeting his. “f-fuck, your lips taste like strawberries…”

the maroon-haired man hummed indifferently, dragging his thumb over his bottom lip to wipe off your lingering saliva. “but i just said the strawberry flavour was disgu—”

“delicious.” you corrected, pinching the plump of his cheek. “dee–li–cious.”

he rolled his eyes and lowered his body onto yours, burying his head into the crook of your neck. he shifted slightly to press a tender kiss to your temple.

“yeah, yeah, whatever. only ‘cause the flavour was on my lips, though.”

⸝⸝⋮ 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐋 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐑

“hmm, mihya–” you nudged him with your elbow. once he turned his attention to you, you handed him your phone. “— i want to try this super cute pocky stick trend with you.”

he took the phone and glanced down at the screen; a romantic couple biting through a pocky stick till their lips locked. kaiser’s face contorted in disgust at the cheesy, clichéd display of faux affection, but his expression soon morphed into a smirk as he looked back at you.

“it seems boring,” he shrugged playfully, setting your phone on the coffee table and leaning his head back against the couch. “don't wanna.”

your brows furrowed together in disappointment, and you instinctively wrapped your arms around his, leaning your weight against him. “baby, please?” you pleaded, fluttering your soft lashes at him purposefully, trying to coax him into doing the challenge with you.

he rolled his eyes at your desperate expression before gently extricating his arm from your grasp and patting your head. your adorable, puppy-eyed look managed to have this effect on him every single time.

“fine, get the pack.” he feigned an exhausted sigh. you quickly bounced off the couch and returned with the cookies-and-cream flavoured pocky stick pack.

once you finished unwrapping the foil, you pulled out a stick and prepared to place the flavoured end between your teeth. but before you could, you felt kaiser's firm grip encircle your wrist, pulling it back.

“nuh-uh, i’m taking the flavoured end,” he asserted, snatching the treat from your grasp. he then flicked your forehead with a smug, triumphant smirk. “you can have the boring end.”

“what? no!” you scoffed, reaching up to try and reclaim the sweet. but he raised his arm and leaned away, evading your grasp with ease. “that's not fair, you take the plain end!”

“it's fine, schatz– you'll reach the cookies and cream part in no time! besides, this is what i get for agreeing to do this dumb challenge with you. it's only fair.”

you crossed your arms and huffed, “fiiine, whatever.”

he grinned and slid the biscuit between his lips, inching closer to you and you took the initiative to put the plain end in your mouth. his large hands held onto your cheek, thumbs rubbing against your soft skin as you both took one synchronized bite.

one bite through the pocky was all it took for kaiser's eyes to widen slightly. in an instant, he pinched the biscuit near your side, snatching it from your mouth and greedily securing it for himself.

“what the fuck–?” he exclaimed, his voice muffled by the treat, pulling away from you gently. “this shit's pretty good.”

you gaped at him, mouth hanging open in disbelief. your body remained frozen, unable to process the audacity of him devouring the sweet that you generously offered. but that's besides the point— you felt offended that he had pushed you away for a mere biscuit?

“really, michael?” you whined, crossing your arms over your chest. “that's not how the trend goes...”

he shook his head, placing the biscuit pack on the table. then, with an unexpected movement, he pulled you onto his lap, taking you by surprise. his cool, slender fingers slipped beneath your shirt, trailing languidly up your waist.

“i'm sorry, meine liebe,” he whispered, leaning closer until his lips brushed against your ear, his breath tickling the skin. “but we can kiss anytime, can't we?”

the way his words fell of his tongue with such assuring confidence made your breath catch in your throat. you slid your arms around his neck and nodded; he wasn’t wrong– there was no rush to complete the challenge right now... the opportunity to enjoy it later was just as appealing, especially with a whole packet of pocky beside you.

his cobalt blue eyes flickered down to your plump, inviting lips. teasing you with the anticipation of a kiss, his lips hovered over yours– but he soon gave up and finally pressed his soft lips against yours. your hands instinctively grasped the fabric of his shirt, your fingers curling tightly into the material. the contact of your silken lips moving against his in such a sloppy, disheveled manner elicited a soft, breathy mewl that slipped into his mouth.

the blond seized the opportunity presented by your parted lips, pushing his tongue into your kiss-bruised mouth. a gasp escaped you as you quickly threaded your fingers through his hair, gently tugging on the strands of blue.

“m-mihya . . .”

he withdrew from the kiss, his gaze lingering with satisfaction at your kiss-drunk visage– lips glistening with his saliva, droopy eyes, and the corners of your mouth twitching in a hazy smile. a pleased smirk spread across his face as he pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead.

“just like i thought, meine liebe,” he murmured, playfully tapping the tip of your nose,

“you taste way sweeter than that shitty snack.”

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seyvith · 6 days ago

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“ PERMISSION TO REST ”

OBSESSED WORSHIPPER — an angel who doesn’t know how to be loved, only how to kneel . . .

requested / gender neutral reader / emotionally fragile angel x reader / intense fixation / devotion laced with fear / touch starved beyond reason / unhealthy comfort / aching vulnerability

masterlist | intro post | character info . . . a/n: finally finished a post, yay!! been super busy with grad, so take these quickly written abrin headcannons as a little gift. i'll write proper fics with my full writing style once i have more time!

The first time you opened your arms to him, an invitation so simple, so achingly human, Abrin didn’t understand. What you meant as comfort, he mistook as a test.

Without pause or hesitation, he dropped to his knees before you, eyes wide with frantic devotion. He pressed desperate kisses along your legs as though in worship, trembling with a feverish need to prove himself. “Tell me what to do. I’ll be good. Please. Let me deserve this.”

You had to kneel with him, gently guiding his face into your hands like one might calm a frightened animal. To him, your embrace wasn’t a kindness, it was a divine trial. The thought that love could be given without condition had never once occurred to him.

When you finally drew him into your arms, his body resisted the moment. He didn’t know how to soften, how to yield. He sat stiff and trembling, his muscles coiled tight like strings drawn too far. Beneath your touch, his pulse fluttered, thin and frantic, as though his very heartbeat feared being held.

His hands hovered, barely brushing the air near your body. “Can I...?” he whispered, as though asking for permission to exist. When you said yes, the breath that left him shuddered out like it had been trapped in his lungs for years.

Cautiously, like a creature unsure of its own shape, he leaned in. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, not out of peace, but surrender. And when the sob finally tore through him, it came with whispered fragments of gratitude, broken and trembling: “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

Holding Abrin is not just cradling an angel. It is gathering the scattered, shattered pieces of something holy and hurt. He fears he is too much: too scarred, too cold, too far gone to ever be worthy of warmth. Yet he yearns for it all the same, as if your arms were the last place left in the world where he might still belong.

His wings bear the worst of it. They are torn, crooked at the joints, marred with breaks both ancient and new. And yet, when you hold him, it’s his wings he wants you to touch most. Every stroke of your fingers along those ruined feathers sends a jolt of pain through him. But he leans in, never away.

He clenches his teeth, eyes glassy with withheld tears. To him, the pain is sacred. Your touch is sacred. A quiet proof that you see all of him, even the broken parts, and still choose to stay. Sometimes, in a voice tight with emotion, he murmurs, “Please don’t stop. It only hurts when you let go.”

The longer you hold him, the more he melts. Slowly, hesitantly, like snow thawing in early spring. His shivering eases. His breath deepens. Eventually, with the carefulness of a child touching something beautiful for the first time, he rests his head against your chest. He listens to your heartbeat as if it were the music of the stars, the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

He always needs to hold something when he’s in your arms; a fold of your sleeve, a corner of your shirt, your hand clenched tightly in his. He anchors himself to you like a dreamer afraid of waking. It is as though he believes that if he’s not tethered to you, he’ll vanish. Or worse, that you will.

Sleep comes to him only in pieces, stitched with hesitation and fear. But in your arms, he wants to try. Still, his voice is soft with worry each time he asks: “May I sleep here? Will you stay?” The question hangs fragile in the air, like frost waiting to melt.

When you say yes, he settles into your warmth with the carefulness of something half starved. If you shift or pull away, even for a breath, he freezes, his body going still and cold like a candle just extinguished. So you stay, holding him until his breathing evens into something that resembles peace.

Once sleep finds him, it’s as though the world’s grip loosens. The tension in his brow fades. The sharp lines of his grief soften. Sometimes, if the night is kind, a faint smile touches his lips, so fleeting, it feels like a secret only you were meant to see.

When he wakes, something in his eyes has changed. The way he looks at you is no longer just grateful, it’s reverent. Disbelieving. He traces the line of your wrist with shaking fingers, as though still expecting you to vanish. “Does it hurt?” he sometimes asks, voice faint. “To touch me?” He believes there must be a cost.

His tears come often in your arms, and he despises that they do. He buries his face against your chest, sobbing in quiet, aching gasps. “I don’t know how to be held,” he whispers. “I don’t know how to be loved.” But you ask nothing of him. You never ask him to change. That, more than anything, undoes him.

He prepares for your embraces as if preparing for prayer. If he knows you’re coming, he straightens the place where you usually sit, changes into something cleaner, gently presses his ruined wings into order. Not because he thinks you expect perfection, but because he does. Because your arms feel holy, and he wants to meet them clean, even if he never truly can.

On days you don’t hold him, he grows quiet—not bitter, never that. Just quieter. Fainter. He watches you with eyes full of longing, but says nothing. And when, hours later, you finally reach for him again, his entire being crumbles. He folds into you without a word, like a man emerging from deep water who’s only just learned how to breathe again.

Yet even this begins to change. Little by little, you see him shift. The wariness softens. The tension loosens. He starts to believe that maybe your embrace isn’t a test, nor a trap. That perhaps not all softness is followed by pain. That love, once offered, might not be torn away.

One day, with his cheek nestled to your chest and his hand curled gently over your heart, he whispers the truest thing he’s ever let himself believe: “I think I was born just to be held by you.”

a/n2: can't yap too much at the front or my post layout will cry but omg when I first read your request, I got so scared at the "you need to time back your writing" part... until I finished reading and realized it was a compliment 😭 thank you sm anon, you're too sweet!!!

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creator-yimynany · 6 months ago

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#ladybug pv #miraculous ladybug 2d project #miraculous pv #bridgette cheng #miraculous ladybug #bridgette dupain cheng #feligette #felix agreste #felix x bridgette #felibri #miraculous oc #quantic kids #miraculous au #fragment fixation

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boyfiechan · 4 months ago

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[Softest Ruin]

...or the one where the song won’t come together, but you might.

Bang Chan x Reader Content Warning: Explicit sexual content, graphic and mature language, reader described as AFAB, rough unprotected sex, fingering, dry humping, creampie, slight cum-play, semi-public setting, dominance and control dynamics, light overstimulation, slight oral fixation, dirty talk, light possessive behavior. [5.4k words]

The hum of the studio filled the air, low and constant, a steady vibration that didn’t just echo off the walls but seemed to live beneath the skin as it thrummed through the floor, a pulse that pressed into bone, something felt as much as heard. It wasn’t just sound—it was weight. A presence that lingered heavy in the corners, clinging like smoke, like breath caught too long in the chest, like something that refused to let go. It wrapped around the room, thick and suffocating, filling the empty spaces between you and Chris, stretching the silence until it felt solid, something to be broken through. Waiting.

He sat there, tension carved into every line of him. Shoulders tight, hunched beneath frustration like it was a physical thing pressing down, spine rigid as if it might snap beneath the strain. His eyes were sharp, shadowed under furrowed brows, locked on the clutter of the room—the mess of tangled cables, the glow of stubborn screens, the scattered fragments of a song that refused to fall into place. It's not coming together, he muttered, voice low, rough. Sounds flat. Dead. Like I'm missing something and I can't—.His hands flexed against his thighs, fingers twitching, restless, like they ached to tear the problem apart, to rip the sound into shape by force. His jaw was locked tight, the muscle jumping beneath his skin, holding back words that burned sharp against the back of his throat, words that wanted to tear loose, words that tasted like defeat.

And you watched him, quiet. His mood pressed into you, sharp and heavy, until it rooted itself somewhere deep, beneath your ribs, low in your belly, a weight that wouldn’t shift. You could feel it—his frustration, his hunger for something just out of reach, something that refused to bend, no matter how many times he twisted the sound, pulled it apart, tried to force it into shape. It was a battle, and he was losing it, piece by piece. You stepped closer, slow, unhurried, each movement careful, until you were standing between his legs, the heat of him brushed against you, close and tangible, stirring something deep and heavy. You didn’t speak, not at first. You let the silence settle, thick and full, letting it stretch until it almost hurt, until it was brimming with things unspoken but understood. Then, soft, like you didn’t want to break the moment, you did. You're too close to it. Maybe you just need to step back.

His eyes lifted, dark and unreadable, but they didn’t just land on you—they caught, snagged, held, like a hook under the skin, like you’d said something he didn’t want to hear but couldn’t ignore. He didn’t answer right away, just watched you, gaze slow, dragging over your face, your mouth, like he was turning your words over, measuring them against the frustration clawing at his ribs. Old habits die hard, and this was his hardest battle—he couldn’t give up, didn’t know how to, didn’t know what to do with the fight once it was gone. It looped through him, constant and biting, the need to keep pushing, to force something to break. You’ve been at it too long, you murmured, stepping in, close enough that the warmth of him reached you, curling in the space between. You're burning yourself out.

His stare didn’t waver, didn’t soften. It stayed on you, heavy, weighted with something unspoken, the kind of look that settled in your stomach, slow and twisting, something almost too much. His hands lifted, rough palms skating over your hips, then curling firm, holding. And then, without a word, he pulled you down, guiding you into his lap. The shift was studied, unhurried, like he wanted you to feel every inch of movement, every second of his grip on you.

His arm wrapped around your waist, solid, grounding, pulling you in, pressing you close. The other hand found your thigh, fingers spreading, warm, certain, the weight of it making your pulse jump. You settled against him, but the air between you didn’t, it stayed charged, stretched thin, buzzing beneath the quiet. You could feel the tension in him—not just in his body, but in the way he held himself back, something sharp coiled tight beneath the surface. His hand moved, dragging slow along your thigh, up, lingering, then slipping beneath your shirt, finding bare skin, heat. His breath brushed against your cheek, heavier now, a little uneven. His voice, when it came, was low, rough, threading through the space between you. You're so good to me, you know that? Maybe it wasn’t a question at all—maybe it was permission, an unspoken invitation to step into the closed-off reality he’d locked himself inside.

It was always like that with him. You pulling him down when he got too lost, too locked in, too tangled inside his own head. Grounding him when the weight of it pressed too heavy, when he forgot how to come back to himself. And maybe you didn’t need words for it—maybe it was already there, in the way you leaned closer, in the quiet pull of your body toward his, like gravity, like you were giving him an answer without speaking, one he could feel beneath his skin. And he was grateful for it, even if he didn’t always say it. Grateful for the way you knew when to reach in, when to catch him before he fell too far. He was learning, slow and rough, how to let you, how to open the door just enough for you to slip inside, to let you hold him still when everything else felt like it was pulling him under.

And his gratitude showed in the way his hand lifted to your face, slow and careful, fingers tracing the line of your jaw like he was committing it to memory, carving the shape of you into something permanent beneath his skin. His thumb lingered at your bottom lip, a pause thick with meaning, a breath caught in the charged space between almost and enough, between wanting and having.

He didn’t press, not at first, just traced, slow, testing. As if he wanted to feel how close he could get before you broke, to watch the tension stretch and pull. His gaze didn’t leave yours, dark and focused, and maybe that was worse because you felt it everywhere. In the weight of him, the way he watched the falter of your breath, the way his eyes tracked the parting of your lips like it meant something.

Then, slow and purposeful, his thumb dragged along the soft seam of your mouth, tracing down until it pressed just inside. A slow, provocative tease—he was daring you, and you let him, lips parting, breath catching, your tongue brushing against the pad of his thumb, soft and wet. A sound left him, low and rough, something that felt like approval, like hunger held back by a thread and you knew himwell like this, knew how he grounded himself on you, on your presence, your body—how it steadied him, anchored him when nothing else could. And still, neither of you spoke, and it didn’t matter. The silence said enough, said everything.

Because when he kissed you, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t slow, but sharp—searing, consuming—like a question asked and already answered. Like inevitability, his mouth claimed yours, rough and hungry, tasting you like something he’d been starved for. His hands weren’t gentle when they caught your waist, fingers digging in just enough to hold, to mark, to keep as pulled you closer, closer still, until there wasn’t space left between you, until it felt like he was burning through you, heat pressed skin to skin. And you let him, wanting to be taken, to burn. Wanting him.

His fingers found the edge of your shirt, slipping beneath with a slow, dragging heat, palms rough, fingertips tracing over bare skin, up the curve of your back, along the dip of your waist. His hands moved like he owned you, like he was learning you all over again, savoring every inch. When he pulled back, it was only enough to breathe, to let his mouth hover just close enough to feel. His voice was rough when it came, low and thick against your lips. So sweet. The words ghosted over your skin, made your breath catch, made heat curl low in your belly.

And then his hands were lower, fingers sliding beneath the loose hem of your shorts, dragging slow along the soft skin of your thighs. His touch was light at first, a whisper of sensation that made you twitch, hips tilting toward him without thought, seeking more, wanting more. He smiled against your skin, the sound a low, dark hum, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear, breath warm and heavy.

Pretty, he murmured, fingertips tracing higher, slow, measured, edging closer to where you ached for him most. Always so pretty for me. The words sank deep, stirring heat under your skin, and you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, not until his thumb pressed down, slow and firm, circling where you were hottest. The friction made you gasp, made your body jolt, hips rolling into his hand, needing the pressure, the touch, the heat, as he chuckled, low and rough, the sound vibrating against your skin. Mhm? he rasped. Like that? And nodded, breathless, but it wasn’t enough, not for him. You felt it in the tension of his hands, the way his grip tightened, the way his breath stilled. He wanted more, wanted to feel you fall apart under him, against him, because of him, and you wanted it too.

He shifted you, guiding you deeper into his lap, settling with your back pressed firm to his chest, until you could feel the heat of him everywhere. His arm curled tight around your waist, steady, possessive, holding you close like he wasn’t about to let go, other hand slid lower, fingers tracing along your thigh, slipping beneath the delicate lace edge of your shorts, fingertips brushing over sensitive skin, finding you again—hot, slick, ready. A low curse slipped from his lips, rough and breathless, pressed to the curve of your shoulder. Already wet, mhm? He murmured, voice low and rough, edged with hunger.

His fingers pressed deeper, slow and sure, sliding inside you with a steady drag that made your breath hitch, spine arching instinctively as his arm held you steady, tight, anchoring you to him. Keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His lips grazed your skin, a soft, dangerous whisper against your shoulder. Easy, baby, he soothed, voice a low promise. I’ve got you. Words that sank deep, that burned low, wrapping around you like his arms.

He moved his fingers with purpose, slow but certain, curling them just right to catch the spot that made you tremble, made your legs tense. His thumb pressed down, slow and steady, circling over your clit, coaxing you higher with every stroke, every calculated shift of pressure. The rhythm was patient, merciless, his hand moving like he knew you better than you knew yourself, feel every sharp edge of your need and wanted to stretch it out, make you feel every second of it.

And his voice. God, his voice. Low and rough, a steady murmur of praise, words spilling warm and slow against your skin. That's it, he breathed, lips brushing the shell of your ear. Just like that. Let me feel you. The way he said it made your pulse stutter, made heat coil tighter, deeper, until it felt like you might shatter from it as you trembled against him, every breath a soft gasp, every tilt of your hips meeting the rhythm he set, craving it, chasing it. And still, he didn’t let up, wet mouth finding your neck, teeth grazing, tongue soft, dragging slow over your skin until you were arching for him again, helpless against the burn of it. You drive me fucking crazy, he whispered, voice thick, heavy. Can't get enough of you.

His hand never faltered, fingers pressed deeper, curling harder, while his thumb circled slower, heavier—relentless in the way it drove you closer, dragged you under, until you were gasping for him, hips pushing back into his chest, head falling to the side, offering more. Letting him taste, letting him take. You wanted to fall apart for him, and he wanted to watch you do it—wanted to feel it, hear it, have it. And you could sense it in him, sharp and hot, simmering beneath the surface, stretching you thin as he felt it too, in the way your body tensed, how your breath hitched, stuttered, broke. But his touch stayed steady. No mercy, just deeper, harder. Every movement a demand, dragging you closer, holding you there, teetering on the edge until there was nowhere left to go but down.

Come for me, yeah?, he whispered, voice low and rough, a command that cracked like heat against your skin. A plea too, but sharp-edged, raw. Let me feel you, need to feel you.

And you did, you shattered for him. Your body broke against his, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat, hips grinding down against his hand like you couldn’t get enough, like you wanted him deeper, harder, even when it was already too much. You felt it everywhere—in the way your body arched, in the way your hands grabbed at him, desperate, clutching, felt it in the way your breath broke, your mind blank and burning, lost in the way he touched you, the way he took you apart.

And he held you through it, solid and sure, arm locked firm around your waist, anchoring you to him while his mouth found your skin, soft and reverent, murmuring praises that felt like they sank straight into bone. Good girl… shh, just like that. That's it. His fingers coaxed you through every wave, slow and steady, pulling every last shudder from you until you were trembling, spent, melted back against his chest.

But he didn’t pull away, not yet, hand stayed warm between your thighs, fingers slow, gentle, tracing over you like he wasn’t ready to let go, wanted to feel every last flicker of you. His lips pressed to your temple, soft, lingering, and when he spoke, his voice was rough, thick with something that felt like more, something heavier. You’re gonna ruin me, you know that?

The words left a mark, sharp and searing, branding the space between you. And the tension didn’t fade—it thickened, coiling low, deep, an ache that lingered beneath skin as you shifted in his lap again, turning slow, controlled, until you were straddling him, facing him, knees pressing into the chair on either side of his hips. His hands caught your waist, fingers firm, holding you there like he wasn’t ready to let you go. The raw edge of release still clung to every breath, every slow press of skin to skin, thick and heavy and wanting.

Your hand moved slow, lazy, fingers trailing over the hard lines of his stomach, tracing the edges of muscle beneath heated skin, lingering at the waistband of his pants, teasing, touch light, coaxing, not taking but savoring, stretching the moment until it ached. His eyes were half-lidded, dark and gone, like watching you unraveled him too, like he drew as much pleasure from your release as you did. There was something raw in the way he looked at you, something lustful, almost erotic, as if the sight of you, still shaking, still flushed, fed something deeper inside him. Your hand rested over him, pressing just enough to feel the heat of him pulse beneath your palm, feeling how hard he was, how ready, the tension humming through his body, barely held back. And he let you linger there, caught in the same sharp edge of want that neither of you dared to break.

And still, you didn’t take him further, you waited, teased. Watching him, feeling the way his breath grew heavier, rougher, his body tense beneath yours. Your eyes found his, knowing, lips curved just enough to let him know you felt it too. That you were holding back, that you were making him wait. And maybe that was what grounded him—the tension, the tiptoeing, the uncertain certainty that he belonged there, beneath your hands, in the heat of your hold. But he didn’t wait, he couldn’t. He didn't have to.

A low, rough sound rumbled from his chest, heat simmering beneath it, his hand sliding around your wrist, firm but slow, guiding you down. He pressed your palm over the thick, heavy shape beneath his jeans, holding it there, letting you feel the way he throbbed for you. His breath dragged hot against your jaw, lips brushing soft, teasing, almost sweet. You know what you're doing to me, don’t you? he murmured, voice low and hungry. And you did, and you loved every fucking second of it.

You moved with him, hips grinding slow, filthy, every press dragging a needy, broken sound from your throat. His cock throbbed beneath you, thick and heavy, the friction sharp and slick as you pushed harder, chasing the burn as you reached down, slipping your fingers beneath the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down with a slow drag that left only the thin stretch of your frilly panties, ruined and soaked. The fabric clung, damp and wanting, and when you settled back over him, the press of his cock against that damp heat pulled another groan from you—sharp, raw, desperate.

You ground down again, slower this time, savoring the friction, the tease, the way the head of him pressed perfectly against your clit through the thin fabric, making your breath stutter. Your fingers found him, sliding beneath the waistband of his pants, teasing until you freed him, fingers tentative at first, tracing the heavy length of him. Hot and hard, velvet-smooth skin stretched over steel, twitching beneath your touch. His breath hitched, sharp and rough, as you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking slow, feeling the weight, the heat, the way he pulsed for you.

But it wasn’t enough, not for him as his hands found your hips, rough and greedy, dragging you closer until your soaked panties pressed flush against him once again. And then, without words, without warning, he hooked his fingers under the edge of the fabric and pushed it aside, baring you to him. The air was cold, the contrast sharp, but his touch was fire, searing as he guided you down. The head of him pressed against you, thick and insistent, sliding through the slick heat until he caught at your entrance. A pause, breath held, tension sharp yhen he pushed in, slow and brutal, stretching you open until you gasped, until your body gave way, slick, eager, taking him deeper, fuller. The sound that tore from him was low, broken, almost pained. Jesus, fuck.

You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, only feel the way he stretched you—thick and heavy, his cock dragging deep, every inch of it veined and pulsing, splitting you open in slow, deep strokes. The slow rut of his hips burned pleasure sharp through every nerve, every push and pull carving into you, leaving you raw, trembling, undone as your pulse pounded, every part of you aching, desperate, ready. You pressed harder, taking him deeper, until it hurt, until it burned, until it tore a sob from your throat, thick and breathy and his words wrapped around you, coiling tight, sinking.

That's it, he groaned, lips brushing your ear, voice wrecked, dangerous. Just like that. The words lit a fire in you, burning low and deep, dragging a sharp cry from your throat. Your body pulsed, tight and desperate, every nerve a live wire, every breath caught and jagged and still, he didn't stop. He rocked into you, deep and slow, holding you down, keeping you close, keeping you his, keeping you there, right where he wanted you until all you could do was beg. Until all you could do was fall apart for him, helpless and ruined, your body breaking open beneath his, nothing left but the way he made you feel.

The studio echoed with every filthy, wet slap of skin, the grind of the chair beneath you, the ragged, broken gasps that filled the thick, heavy air. His hand was a brand on your back, pressing you down, keeping you steady, holding you right where he wanted you, his cock shoved deep, thick and brutal, stretching you open with every ruthless thrust. Each drive tore through you, sharp and raw, filling you so full it hurt, and you arched into it, desperate for more, for harder, for deeper. His name tore from your throat, a broken plea, a curse, and he caught it, felt it, fucking owned it.

You're a goddamn dream, he rasped, voice thick and wasted, every word dragging fire down your spine. His fingers bruised into your thigh, rough and claiming, holding you open, forcing you to take him, to feel every inch as his hips snapped harder, deeper, burying himself to the hilt, each thrust brutal, merciless. The stretch, the burn, it split you open, raw and aching and you wanted it, craved it, the mess of it, the filth, the slick sound of him inside you, the wet, obscene drag that filled the room.

His mouth traced fire down your throat, teeth scraping, lips catching, tongue licking sweat from your skin. Feel that, yeah? How deep I am? The words were a low, growling sin, hot and dark in your ear, and they shattered something inside you. You love it, don't you? How I stretch you, make you full. So fucking greedy for it. Such a sweet mess for me. His hand slid down, fingers pressing into the wet heat where you took him, feeling the way you pulsed around him, slick and wanting and you clawed at him, nails raking, hips jerking, forcing him deeper, rougher, chasing the burn, chasing the ruin. Every movement was vicious, sharp, dangerous. And when you cried out, when you begged, when you broke, he swallowed it down, caught it with his mouth, drank it in like it was his right, like he owned it, owned you.

His groan echoed in your mouth, low and wrecked. I'd fucking record this, he rasped, breath hot and filthy. Every sound you make when I'm deep inside you. Play it back, ruin myself on it. Over and over. His lips dragged over your jaw, biting, rough. But I won't, 'cause you're mine. No one else gets to know how you sound when you're falling apart on my cock, no one but me.

You pressed in, grinding down, chasing the friction, breath ragged and sharp sd his hand slid between you, fingers slipping beneath the mess of heat, finding your clit. He circled slow, rough, just enough to rip a cry from your throat and you bit into his skin, trying to swallow it, body trembling beneath his weight. He growled, deep and dark, the sound bleeding into your skin, his touch merciless as if he wanted you broken, ruined, trembling on the edge. As if he wanted to take you there and hold you there, wrecked and his, with no way back.

That's it, his voice rougher by the minute. Come for me. Give it to me, let me have it, darling.

And you gave it to him, you shattered, clenching tight, body locking down, hips jerking in sharp, uncontrolled spasms. His name tore from you, raw and broken, muffled against his skin, your voice a ragged plea, a surrender as his arms crushed you impossibly closer, mouth rough and claiming, teeth scraping over your throat, biting just enough to make you tremble. You gave him everything—every cry, every tremor, every breathless, desperate sound—and he took it, drank it down like it was his right, like it was his fucking need. He let you ride it out, dragged it deeper, grinding into the ache, until you were limp, undone, wrecked, but he wasn't done, not even close.

His grip turned even more brutal, fingers biting deep into your hips, holding you exactly where he wanted as his pace turned savage, hips snapping hard, rough, relentless. This pussy was made for me, he groaned, voice rough, strained, almost breaking. So fucking tight, so fucking perfect.

You turned your head, lips dragging over his jaw, tasting sweat, salt, him. Wanna feel you cum in me, you breathed, voice wrecked and needy, raw with it. Please… need it.

His answer was a sound, low and guttural, a growl that tore through him, primal and dangerous, he slammed into you harder, sharper, hips brutal, grinding deep like he wanted to leave a mark, like he wanted to brand you from the inside out. The chair beneath you groaned, creaking beneath the force, every sound filthy, obscene, loud, air was thick with heat, with sweat, with the raw, relentless drag of skin and breath and hunger. His mouth found your neck again, biting hard, tongue chasing the sting, lips claiming every inch of skin like it belonged to him, you belonged to him. You felt every inch, every vein, the slick slide of him splitting you open, filling you until it hurt, until it burned, until you couldn’t tell where he ended and you began.

Shit, you're taking me so fucking good, he groaned, voice rough and ragged, words dragging over your skin like fire. So easy for me, so fucking wet, letting me in so deep, letting me take whatever I want. You love it, don’t you? Love how I fill you, stretch your pussy open.

You gasped, the words ripping through you, sharp and dangerous, your body clenching around him in a desperate, helpless response. Chris, you moaned, breathless and broken, the sound spilling out before you could catch it. His name hit the air like a spark, and he growled, his grip tightening, his pace brutal, fucking you deeper, harder, as if the sound of his name on your lips wrecked him, ruined him, as if he needed it as much as he needed to breathe. Fuck, the way you squeeze me, he rasped, the strain thick in his voice. So greedy for it, can't get enough, can you?

And you let him. Let him take, let him ruin, let him have, hands clawed at his back, nails biting deep into sweat-slick skin, hips pushed up, greedy and desperate, chasing the drag, the grind, the brutal edge of him. You needed more—needed him deeper, harder, all-consuming—and he gave it, relentless and hungry. His breath was hot and broken against your skin, ragged, desperate, a filthy promise in every exhale. You're gonna take it, yeah?, he groaned, voice low and rough, every word dragging heat down your spine. You're already dripping for me… messy fucking girl. Want more?

And you wanted it. God, you wanted it, wanted to be wrecked, wanted to be ruined, to feel him spill inside and stay there, thick and warm, marking you as your hands clawed harder, nails scratching over muscle as your body bowed, urging him deeper, faster. The sounds were messy, slick and wet, skin on skin, gasps and moans tangled between you, filthy and raw, hips snapped harder, sharper, driving into you like he could break you open and fill every part of you.

Fuck... baby, so close, he groaned, voice rough and wrecked, each word dragging heat down your spine. His grip tightened, holding you still as his thrusts turned frantic, desperate. Gonna cum inside you... gonna fill you up, fuck, need it—need you. And when it hit, it tore through him, q raw, broken cry ripped from his throat as he slammed deep, grinding hard, burying himself to the hilt. Shit—baby, he gasped, voice shaking, almost a whimper as he spilled inside, thick and hot, filling you until it leaked, dripping messy and warm down your thighs. He stayed there, grinding slow, hips pressing deeper like he couldn’t let go, couldn’t stop, like he needed to feel you take it all.

Your body was soft, spent, molding to his, every breath ragged and heavy, the air between you stayed thick with heat and sweat and something darker, something neither of you dared name. The weight of it pressed down, heavy and sharp, filling every quiet second. Chris's hands didn’t stray far, one lingered at the curve of your waist, thumb tracing over slick skin, slow and claiming, while the other slid lower, wanting, as if he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving, of pulling away, as if he wanted to keep you right there, holding him, holding everything he gave you, a secret just between your bodies.

He looked down first, gaze dropping to where you still dripped for him, the mess of it slick and raw between your thighs and his eyes darkened, hunger sharp and cutting, watching the way it leaked out slow, glistening in the low light. His breath hitched, jaw flexing like it physically hurt him to see it, to see you like this—ruined and wrecked and open for him. Look at this he muttered, voice low, tight. His fingers dragged through it, slow and intentional, gathering what was slipping out. He watched, transfixed, as it clung to his skin, as if he couldn’t stand to lose a single drop, pressing two fingers back inside you, firm and deep, pushing everything in, making you take it for good. Still so fucking wet for me. The stretch was sharp, the burn immediate, and a gasp tore from your throat, your body clenching around him as he filled you again, the sound of it—wet and obscene—echoed through the air, filthy and raw.

His thumb pressed low, tracing slow, burning circles that made your legs tremble. His gaze locked with yours—dark, intense, like he wanted to brand this moment into his skin, fngers dragging out of your hole, slick and glistening, lifting to your lips. He traced them over the soft curve first, smearing wetness onto your skin, painting you in what you'd given him as his breath hitched, shallow, watching as your lips parted under his touch, as though your body already knew what it wanted as they slid in, slow, pressing against your tongue. The taste flooded over you—rich, heavy, dark, filthy and perfect. You sucked slow, savoring every trace, eyes locked to his, daring him to look away, daring him to keep watching as you ruined him in the softest way, as pretty as ever.

He watched you, jaw tight, something raw flickering beneath the surface as his other hand slid to your cheek, thumb tracing over the line of your jaw, soft and slow. Made such a pretty mess of you, he muttered, voice low and dark. You're a good distraction. You let his fingers slip from your lips, a soft breath catching between you. Yeah? The word was quiet, uncertain, but his nod came steady, sure. Yeah. Thank you.

The words held weight, thick and slow, settling deep in the quiet. Not careless, not light., something real that lingered between your bodies, pressed close and warm. His hands stayed on you, gentle but firm, like he wasn’t ready to let go, like maybe he never would. For a moment, the world outside the heat of his skin didn't exist. There was just the slow stroke of his thumb over your cheek, the soft sigh that passed your lips, the heavy way your bodies stayed close, reluctant to separate. His eyes searched yours, as if looking for something he couldn’t quite name, maybe it was the same thing you felt, lingering low and dangerous beneath your ribs, tight and sharp.

But neither of you said it. The words stayed caught between your breaths, pressed down by the weight of what had passed and what might come after. Instead, his thumb traced over your lips again, slow and warm, smearing the faint remnants of what you'd shared. Still messy, he whispered, and the corner of his mouth twitched, as if the words tasted sweeter than they should. Might need to clean you up.

The heat that sparked low in your stomach said you wouldn't mind that at all.

#bang chan x reader #chan x reader #bang chan thoughts #bang chan hard hours #bang chan hard thoughts #bang chan smut #chan hard thoughts #skz smut #skz hard hours #skz hard thoughts #bang chan headcanons #chan smut

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seaborgium-dazies · 2 months ago

Note

bro ive been fixating on ur walking in on denki masturbating fic for DAYS pleaseeee a p2 on that ☹️☹️🙏🙏

I bet you never had a Friday night like this♡ mdni

AYYYEEEEE that high-key means so much to me 🤭 The feared video game weekend is approaching 😋 and things are about to get messy - denki lovers unite! pt.2 to this fic cw: miscommunication, angst in the beginning, you and denki both being avoidant and afraid, wingman!deku, oral sex f!receiving, fingering, denki with a tongue piercing, pet name (sweetheart)

If there was something denki really didn't know how to deal with it was awkwardness. That gut wrenching bone crushing awkwardness. The type that makes you stare at a wall and burn hot under other peoples gazes. The type that makes your body feel foreign and guilt seep out of your pores.

And by all means the whole class was staring at him. And you. It's no wonder, really. One Thursday morning like every other came and you two suddenly avoided each other like the plague? No more interlocked limbs or disturbing class with loud laughter and dirty jokes? How could they not wonder what transpired?

The air felt thick with murmurs but as long as people wouldn't outright ask you what had happened you figured you'd be fine. Panic was burning in your chest, the words you said on repeat in your mind as you eyed the back of denkis head.

Minutes seemed to stretch into hours, your tongue growing thick with unsaid words; threatening to close your throat. But what could you even say? You had given him some high risk honesty and apologizing for that didn't feel right.

You buried your head in your hands and sighed in frustration when the bell finally rang. Denki watched you bolt past him, not even bothering to put your things away. No, you ran out of the classroom with your notes and pens in hand.

"I fucked up that bad, huh.", the words shot through denkis mind.

Words of self deprecation had been echoing in denkis head ever since he came down from his high to an empty room and a Kleenex full of cum. He felt like sobbing when he remembered what happened. The music coming from his sound system made him want to sob.

You told me, "Think about it," well, I did

Now I don't wanna feel a thing anymore

Just how much of a fuck up could he be? How was he able to ruin the one good thing in his life?! Why did he?! Why?!

And before denki knew it tears were cascading down his face. But who was he to fight them, he already did the most pathetic thing ever so why not cry in cum stained sheets?

He kept thinking back to your face when you walked in, that twitch of your eyebrows that he never saw before and the look of pity near the end, he just wanted to forget it ever happened. Fragments of his memory were already slipping away or maybe he was exiling them.

When the memory sneaks up on him he physically cringes, a painful ringing replacing any words you had said. And to make matters worse the snacks he bought yesterday were practically mocking him.

Denki let out a shuddering breath as he examined the sour gummy worms. He wants to apologize to you, for everything, but how could he? You were avoiding him and he's pretty sure that he couldn't even meet your eye if he stood in front of you.

Still there was a dull ache in his chest and the unignorable desire to talk to you like he did just one day ago. He just couldn't believe that he fumbled his crush even before he even tried to pull a move. Typical.

But whatever.

Denki shook his head, tried to puff out his chest and thought to himself that it's okay. Yes, losing the most important person in his life made him want to go to sleep and never wake up again. And it truly didn't feel like it was okay, but there's nothing else for him to do. He would try to get over it on the weekend or think of a proper apology or maybe just go take a bath while using his quirk-

He tried to push the negative thoughts away and just get through the day. Friday's schedule was shorter than every other day so it shouldn't be too hard.

Minutes turned to hours turned to a successful survival attempt. This time denki was the one to bolt. His sneakers were threatening to fall apart under the brutal pace he set but it didn't matter to him one bit.

You felt like your knees were about to give out. There went your chance to set things straight. You sighed deeply and went to your dorm defeated.

A couple hours later you heard a quick knock. Your heart was already beating wildly - much to your letdown Midoriya was standing in front of your dorm. Your next door neighbor seemed as happy-go-lucky as ever. You scoffed internally, you really hoped for it to be denki.

"Hi y/n!"

"Hey, what's up?"

You cocked an eyebrow at the stack of manga he was holding.

"These are denkis! I was gonna go return them to him now"

"Oh..."

Suddenly you felt sick-

"D-do you want me to give them to him or ?"

"Oh no, sorry! You guys invited me to your hangout? On Monday during lunch? It's okay if you forgot, I don't have to come, it's no biggie!-"

"Ah, yes! Of course! No, of course I didn't forget, let me just grab my things and let's get going."

You shot deku a quick smile but internally you were going off the rails. Had he really not noticed? Should you say something? But before you knew it you had gathered everything necessary and you both took your leave.

Denki was staring at the ceiling as he heard a firm knock. It couldn't be, could it?! Denki jumped up at the sound and immediately ran to get the door. He wiped his sweaty hands on the side of his pants before preparing himself mentally-

"Midoriya?"

"Hi!"

The disappointment in denkis voice was unmistakable until he spotted you too.

"Oh y/n, hi"

"Hey"

Moments passed without a word said, yours and denkis gaze meeting for the first time in days. Deku cleared his throat which put an end to your emotionally confusing staring contest.

"Uhm come in, come in"

Deku returned denkis manga and skillfully established an easygoing conversation between the three of you. Sadly he announced his departure all too soon, the tension returning to the situation when deku was absent.

"Uhm, so do you wanna play a little?"

You tore Denki out of his downward spiral and he gave you an all too familiar smirk.

"You're on"

Hours passed and you two were back in familiar waters - teasing, bickering and even an accidental hand brush that made you both gasp. Rounds of Mario kart over new monster flavors were able to bring a genuine smile to your face after what felt like years of sadness.

You were lazing on his couch as he was replaying Breath of the wild, the sun long gone by now. Your eyes felt heavy but your heart was content with having returned to normalcy. Even if you never spoke about the incident, you'd be happy like this.

"I'm sorry about Wednesday"

Denkis beaten down voice tore you from your dozing; you cocked your eyebrow.

"What? Why??", genuine surprise dripped off of your voice.

"I know I shouldn't have lied about not knowing where your CD was and I know I especially shouldn't have done anything shameful while listening to it it's not honest and I don't want you to think I'm any type of sleaze and I know it's unacceptable and really I will never do anything like that again-"

"Denki, I already told you not to worry about that" your voice was incredibly gentle as if not to startle him. Denki stops mid rant

"Wait, you did?"

"Yeah... don't you remember?"

"N...o?"

You couldn't help but blush. Your voice trailed off as you reiterated,

"I told you that it's a normal part of life and you shouldn't be ashamed..."

Now it was denkis turn to be confused

"Wait, but why have you acting so distant this week then?!"

You almost spit out the sip of monster you took.

"UHM?! You've been distant too?!"

"Okay but still, did you say anything else?"

"Well you really don't remember what I said?

"No??"

At this point denki is dying to know what you said but you saw the opening of your life. You saw the perfect opportunity to erase your peeping pervert moment from history. You were metaphorically washing yourself clean as you said

"Well that was actually everything. But I'm glad we talked it through. I'm low-key tired though, let's go to sleep"

Denki agreed and although he felt better to have gotten that off of his chest he still felt as if there was a piece missing from the puzzle.

You were both laying comfortably now, listening to the soft buzzing of his mini fridge. You could practically hear denkis thoughts at a hundred miles per hour when he sat up and shouted

"YOU SAID I LOOKED HOT?!"

He hastily turned the light on, the half drunken monsters still on the floor next to his consoles.

You tried to hide behind your hands, to no avail.

"yeah"

Your voice was impossibly small, the shame radiating off of you. But denki for one thought it was refreshing seeing someone else be ashamed for once.

"And you looked at me, didn't you?"

Denkis newfound smugness made you cringe.

"Well I don't think that's fair"

"no it really isn't and I'm sorry denki... I know I shouldn't have invaded your privacy like that and-"

You were busy explaining yourself behind your hand-shield and didn't see denki inching closer. Suddenly you felt his warm hands on yours, pulling them from your face.

"Wha-"

"Don't hide."

Your cheeks started turning crimson as his hands stayed on yours. All words seemed to be sucked out of your brain.

"I don't think it's fair-"

"Yeah you said that already-"

"That you saw me naked but I didn't see you naked"

Denkis words knocked the air out of your lungs. Did he really just?! And while your lips parted in shock he moved closer, placing his soft lips on yours.

Lips caressing and tongues melting into one another soon turned into impatient hands and sparks flying.

When denki pulled away from you his pupils were blown out and a string of saliva connected your lips.

"So? What do you say?"

Denkis words came back to you full force now. He wanted to see you naked? Your crush basically just kissed you and confessed to liking you too and now he wanted to see you naked?!

You let out a shuddering breath and with a nod you saw a gentle smile spreading across denkis lips that you knew was only reserved for you.

Before you knew it he was in his boxer shorts and you laid before him, fully exposed. He settled between your legs and gently pulled them apart.

Denki couldn't help but groan at the sight of your glistening folds, your cunt betraying just how much you wanted him.

"Can I?"

You nodded fervently and denki dove right in. His tongue met your swollen clit and you cried out. The cool metal of his piercing dragged along your walls as you clenched around nothing.

"Greedy, aren't we?"

Denkis taunting words sent a shiver down your spine and when he pressed the tip of his finger into your pussy you audibly gasped.

"denki-"

"What's the matter sweetheart?"

"S'much"

Denki felt pride blooming in his chest when he heard your slurred words. He marveled at the effect his tongue had on you as he began sucking on your clit. His fingers went faster and your cries of pleasure intensified.

You gripped and pulled his hair in an attempt to stay as sane as possible which earned you a moan vibrating through your core.

"Aaaah~ fuck!"

Denki lapped at your clit and folds for what felt like hours. Broad stripes to kitten licks to sucking on your clit again. He really knew how to make you lose your mind. And with a final cry the knot in your stomach snapped and ecstacy coursed through your veins.

Coming down from your high was intense but seeing denki grinning down at you with your arousal coating the bottom half of his face made your heart flutter.

Of course he cleaned you up, helped you get dressed and settled next to you in bed. And just as your cuddling bodies melted into one you whispered a reference he immediately understood.

"I bet you never had a Friday night like this."

Denki replied, "Keep it up, keep it up" while pressing a kiss to the side of your head.

And as you were falling asleep both of you were thanking your lucky stars.

Buy me a coffee? <3

©️ seaborgium-dazies 2025

Leave some love, reblogs and comments dearly appreciated. Thank you for reading!

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livingund3ad · 3 months ago

Text

[for the last time || в последний раз]

warnings: depictions of drowning, mentions of murder, suicide and death. read with discretion

» you are here | 02. | 03. | ... |

From the eyes of [ ? ]

Transcript of Gotham Gazette’s Breaking Report - July 26th, 20XX

4:12 AM:

A tip-off was received from an anonymous source regarding unusual activity at Gotham’s Westriver district. Police vehicles and ambulances were spotted converging near the secluded edges of Gotham River—an area notorious for its dense forestry and dark history.

4:45 AM:

Journalists began arriving at the scene, their vehicles halted by police barricades and vigilant security guards. Under the waning moonlight, the air was thick with dread, murmurs building as scattered information trickled down to the press like blood seeping from a fresh wound.

5:03 AM:

The first confirmation: It was a recovery mission. A body had been pulled from the lake.

Witnesses reported seeing Bruce Wayne himself, dripping wet, his clothes clinging to him like the weight of his own name. Beside him, Richard “Dick” Grayson, his adopted son, equally drenched and disheveled, his eyes wide and haunted.

The two had been escorted away from the lake by paramedics, refusing medical attention despite the chill in their bones. The urgency of their movements was eclipsed only by the sheer devastation etched into their faces.

5:18 AM:

Timothy Drake and Damian Wayne emerged from the thick of the woods. Neither of them bore the dampness of the lake but their expressions spoke of something far worse. Something hollow and undone.

Photographs capture Timothy hunched over his phone, his fingers shaking against the screen, his lips moving but producing no sound. Damian, the youngest of the Wayne family, wore a scowl so vicious and desperate. Belongings that appeared not his held tightly in his hands.

5:35 AM:

Paramedics wheeled a gurney draped in white cloth towards the ambulance. Flashes of cameras ignited the darkness, stuttering against the crisp material of the sheet. The body beneath was small. Fragile.

The public’s fixation shifted from the family to the figure hidden beneath the shroud. The rumors were relentless, each theory more grisly than the last. But the truth was far simpler. And perhaps far more tragic.

It was J*** “Doe” Wayne.

A name only whispered in tabloid columns and murmured through charity event speeches. Another ward of Bruce Wayne, adopted into the sprawling empire with little fanfare or spectacle. The papers had only touched upon her existence over the years—a young girl hidden from the public eye, shielded by the iron gates of Wayne Manor and the shadows of Gotham’s elite.

6:00 AM:

Questions splintered through the media like glass. What was she doing at the river in the middle of the night? Was it an accident? Foul play? A desperate attempt to escape the crushing weight of the Wayne legacy?

The officials refused to give statements, urging the press to maintain their distance. No confirmation. No denial. Just the lingering, oppressive silence of unanswered questions.

But the most damning piece of evidence came from the Waynes themselves.

Photographs circulated of Bruce Wayne’s face, pale and slack, eyes unfocused as he sat slumped on the hood of his car. Beside him, Dick Grayson, fists clenched at his sides, tears smudged into his cheeks like war paint.

For a family so used to presenting perfection to the public, their grief was painfully, brutally exposed.

6:45 AM:

The ambulance departed, sirens off. A grim omen. The kind reporters recognize all too well.

Rumors sparked like wildfire—J*** had drowned. But was it her own doing, or had someone pushed her? Had the burden of living under the Wayne name finally cracked her fragile frame, or was there something darker at play?

Theories were exchanged in frantic whispers, reporters scrambling to piece together fragments of truth from the ashes of tragedy.

7:30 AM:

Police issued a statement confirming the body belonged to J*** “Doe” Wayne. Age eighteen. Probable cause of Death—Asphyxiation by Submersion. No further details were provided.

Bruce Wayne and his sons were escorted away from the scene shortly after. Their silence a fortress built of agony and guilt.

Now, in the wake of her death, the public demands answers.

Was it murder? Suicide? An accident? Or something far more sinister lurking beneath Gotham’s glittering surface?

What had exactly happened to J*** “Doe” Wayne?

Authors note: Yes, it's a Yan! Batfam. Whodunnit. Erm there's a likely possibility that this will end up in the unfinished yan! batfam fics archive. I will attempt to write this I promise, cuz like I've been reading some Yan!Batfam fics and I haven't seen one yet that's been finished so why not write one that starts at the ending(?). Lol I'm just a dumbass who's a sucker for angst idk what's happening tbh. Also yes, I will be using she/her pronouns, and the reader darling is going to be called J*** or "Doe" in this cuz I have a reason for that. It's a secret for now. Or maybe you guys already do know from the theme I suck at being subtle.

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sharieb · 17 days ago

Text

Held in the Hollowed Fragments 5: To Sleep is to Return

Synopsis: Haunted by a persistent ache and fragmented memories, he finds solace only within the realm of dreams, a fog-shrouded sanctuary where a mysterious woman, both familiar and real, awaits him. What begins as a quest to understand these nightly visions transforms into a profound emotional awakening. Through shared moments of quiet intimacy and gentle touch, he reconnects with a lost part of himself, surrendering control and embracing vulnerability. She is no longer a distant ideal but a living presence who teaches him to create, to rest, and to feel deeply. Pairing: LADs x Non! Mc (you)

LADs POV (General and Individual) Genres: Fluff and Hurt/ (some) comfort

Word count: +3.1K

Content Warning: Fluff, hurt with some comfort, fixation, obsession, feelings of loss and grief, hints of identity struggle, implied substance use, emotional dependency, subtle hints of control issues

youtube

Music: Youth by Daughter

Taglist: @plzdonutpercieveme, @miuangel, @xiisblogs

First Previous Next

Why wasn’t she here?

The thought beats behind his temples like a quiet pulse—soft, relentless. Ever since that last dream—the one where he saw himself, the boy he used to be, and her, wrapped in something tender and untouchable—he hasn’t been able to let it go.

She was there for him. She stayed. Through every storm. Every silence. Every unraveling of the world around them.

But where is she now?

And why can’t he remember losing her?

The waking world gives no answers. Only the ache remains—dull, insistent. So he does the only thing that feels right:

He returns to the fog.

Night after night, he slips beneath the surface, welcoming the chill of mist and memory. What was once an occasional dream becomes a ritual. The fog thickens faster. Greets him like an old friend—quiet, constant.

And she is always there.

At first, she’s a presence. Familiar, but blurred. Her voice was a soft echo. Her laugh was a thread of warmth pulled from some half-remembered time. He treats it like a puzzle. Logs the fragments. Tracks lunar phases. Journals dream symbols, sleep cycles, anything that might explain her. As if he's a scientist hunting for reason.

But then, one night—

She sharpens.

No more silhouettes. No more teasing shadows.

He sees her face—truly sees it.

Not some sculpted ideal. Not the distant, porcelain perfection of fantasy. No, her beauty is grounded. Gentle. Real. A mouth that lifts a little crooked when she laughs. A nose that crinkles. Soft eyes full of clarity and storm. There’s nothing flawless about her—and that’s what makes her unforgettable. She doesn’t feel imagined. She feels inevitable.

She smiles, and the world softens as she tells him her name.

She says his name, and something inside him answers.

And for the first time, he stops watching from a distance. He steps forward.

He is no longer the echo of a past self. No longer just a dreamer looking in.

He is present. Awake inside the dream.

And the dream changes.

It started with replays of long-forgotten memories, core memories from a different life that had somehow ingrained and shaped his current lifetime. Soon, new dreams were made by them. New moments. New warmth. They walk shoulder to shoulder through fogged ruins and half-lit skies. She leans into him on a crumbling ledge above some forgotten city. He threads his fingers through hers. She hums a lullaby that curls through the fog like smoke.

She touches his face.

He touches hers.

It feels terrifyingly real. And impossibly safe.

He tells himself it’s still about understanding. About answers. But he knows now—

He’s fallen.

And the fog, once a mystery, has become a home.

It begins with the desire for data.

He records sleep cycles. Notes variations in REM duration. Tags dream sequences in coded shorthand. Anything to quantify what keeps pulling him under. The dreams aren't random—he’s certain of it. And if there’s a pattern, he’ll find it.

But analysis gives way to fixation.

The fog becomes a constant. The woman in it—no longer an anomaly, but a presence he anticipates. Her voice lingers past waking. Her silhouette stays imprinted behind his eyelids, more persistent than memory. He tells himself he's looking for causality, perhaps even a misfiring of neurons tied to fatigue or unprocessed emotion.

But he knows better.

The obsession has taken root.

He no longer observes. He yearns. For the dreams. For her. For the strange, impossible feeling that he was once whole in a way the real world no longer allows.

And then, the ache turns sweet.

One dream slips in quieter than the others. It isn’t grand or tragic. Just her—offering him something small. A piece of candy, unwrapped and pressed into his palm like a secret.

He eyes it suspiciously at first, turns it over with a stoic detachment. But she only grins, patient and expectant. So he places it on his tongue—and freezes.

His whole face scrunches. Eyebrows shoot up. A tiny sound escapes him, a cross between surprise and wonder. It’s sweet. Unreasonably sweet. His eyes widen like he’s just discovered a new vital sign. Then comes a quiet, pleased hum. He tries to hide how much he likes it. Fails. Completely.

She laughs—not at him, but because of him. Because in that small moment, he lets his guard down. And he smiles. An open, boyish thing not seen in years.

After that, he begins to crave the dreams. Not just for what they show him—but for the comfort she brings. The ease of her presence. A place where nothing is demanded of him beyond simply existing.

He remembers another dream: gentler, still. She doesn’t flinch at the frost in his hands or the cold breath curling around his words.

Instead, she drew close and took his cold hands in hers, into her warmth. Then she asked, “Can you make something beautiful with it?”

That night, he tries.

The first creation is a mess of soft snow—a clumsy little thing that looks vaguely like a rabbit, or perhaps a bear. It melts before he can finish. But she takes it in her hands like it’s something precious. Her laughter doesn’t mock. It invites.

So, he tries again.

The next one isn’t perfect. Still awkward, still too blocky—but it doesn’t melt. And when she sees it, her eyes light up.

For the first time, his power doesn’t feel like a burden. It feels like something he chose. Something soft and expressive, shaped by her belief in him.

With her, even winter begins to feel warm.

At first, the dreams seem like nothing more than a warm feeling.

A quiet space. A breath between days. No urgency. No threat. Just fog curling around the edges of his mind like a soft blanket.

Then she appears.

Not with grandeur. Not like a storm or spark—but like morning light through curtains. Familiar. Gentle. Steady.

In the fog, she smiles with a softness that dissolves fear. Her hand finds his, and his walls fall like stardust. He stops waiting for dreams—he begins living for them.

Time becomes elastic. Reality dims. He speaks less. Sleeps more. Every silence in the fog hums with her understanding. She sees through him—every hesitation, every mask. And with her, he’s not just known.

He is safe.

And he’ll trade anything for that.

He dreams of the first time she took his hand and guided it along ivory keys.

He’d never touched a piano before—not properly. It had always seemed like something unreachable, like art for someone else’s world. But her presence stripped away the pressure. There was no lesson. No expectation. Just play. She sat beside him, shoulder against his, and whispered the first few notes like a secret.

They played for hours.

He didn’t want to stop.

The sound stayed with him even after waking—notes lingering in his bones like lullabies half-remembered.

Another memory forms in the fog: a lazy afternoon by still water.

She teaches him how to cast fishing lines. There’s no rush. No need to catch anything. It’s about stillness. About waiting. About learning to listen.

They talk about nothing and everything. She teases him—gently, sweetly. And he loves it. He can be soft with her. He can lean. He doesn’t have to explain why some days feel heavier than others. She just… gets it.

And gods, he loves to sleep after she showed him the enjoyment in sleeping. Naps become a shared secret—a quiet joy between them. He finds himself loving them just as much as she does.

Sometimes she teaches him how to fight with a sword—playful sparring matches where laughter rings louder than any clash of blades. Their movements become a dance of trust and discovery, blending strength and softness in a way that feels anything but ordinary.

When he plays piano now—on sleepless nights, in quiet corners of his life—it’s for her.

When he closes his eyes midday, letting the fog claim him early, it’s to find her.

And when he’s too tired to speak, when the world gets loud and sharp and cruel—he thinks of her smile, her teasing, the way she made every shared silence feel like love.

He doesn’t chase the dream anymore.

He surrenders to it.

He doesn’t remember when the dreams began.

Not exactly.

They come softly, like brushstrokes on canvas—layered until one day, he wakes with colours lingering in his lungs. Fingers tingling like they’ve been holding a paintbrush all night.

At first, it’s only texture. Fog and light and the ghost of melody. But then comes colour. Explosive, radiant colour that bleeds into everything. Walls, sky, even the spaces between his ribs. He sees her there, always at the centre of it. Not directing the dream, not standing still like a muse, but moving. Dancing. Laughing. Living inside the very chaos that calls to him.

And the world she moves through?

It’s like stepping into a living canvas.

A broken theatre, scattered with forgotten props. Rusted catwalks high above a city that hums with unfinished lullabies. Neon lights flickering in time with her breath. It's surreal. Beautiful. A little ridiculous. Like a dream designed by someone who never learned to colour inside the lines—and never cared to try.

The fog gives way to memory.

Once, when he was younger—loud, defiant, always on the edge of trouble—she stopped him mid-mischief with nothing more than a soft voice and a brush. “Try this instead,” she said, and handed him a jar of watercolours.

He scoffed.

Then, he tried.

And in those colours, something inside him stilled for the first time. Not silenced, but understood.

He kept returning to her.

In another memory, older now, she pulled him from a suffocating routine and took him wandering through open spaces—mountains, ruined galleries, flowering alleyways at twilight. “Look,” she whispered, and pointed to the way light pooled across stone, to the cracks in murals, to the laughter of strangers. “Art is everywhere.”

With her, he saw the world differently. He saw himself differently.

Back in the dreams, she takes his hand and twirls him across cracked tiles, dares him to stop thinking.

He doesn’t.

He lets go.

There’s a moment—just one—where she hands him a brush. No instruction. No expectation. Just… trust.

And so, he paints.

It isn’t good. The lines are messy, the colour runs too fast, and the proportions are all wrong. But she looks at it like it’s the first sunrise after a hundred storms.

He paints again.

The next one flows more easily. His hands know the rhythm. His heart keeps the beat. The fog itself seems to pulse with colour now, blooming with every flick of his wrist.

In the waking world, he hasn’t touched a canvas in weeks. Maybe months. The passion faded. The spark flickered. There were days when even picking up a pencil felt like a lie.

But in this dream—with her—creation feels effortless. Not performative. Not judged.

Just alive.

She tells him, one night, as they lie in a room of floating murals, that art doesn’t need to be perfect to be sacred. That sometimes beauty is born in the act of trying.

He doesn’t answer.

He just watches the way her fingertips glow as she traces stars into the dark.

And something in him stirs.

A quiet, long-lost hunger—not just for her, but for the joy he’d buried beneath expectations and deadlines.

In the dream scape, he creates without fear. Without self-loathing.

With her, he remembers why he ever started.

He begins to recreate her.

On paper. In paint. In quiet songs, he hums without realising. Her silhouette becomes muscle memory. The fog coils around her like brushstrokes. He calls her his muse, but what he’s building is more than memory.

It’s a sanctuary.

He forgets work. Misses meals. Cancels plans. Nothing else matters. She becomes beauty itself—singular, sacred. Even her flaws are beloved, though they blur at the edges. She is not a substitute.

She is everything.

And he remembers She once gave him a brush, guided his hand through colour, taught him that mess could be beauty and silence could be art. His fingers have never stopped painting. Not even when he forgets why. The memory lingers beneath his nails like pigment, like colour blooming in grey.

He doesn’t fall. He chooses.

Or so he says.

The fog is now his dominion. In the waking world, he commands rooms, bends rules, and carves order from chaos. But here, in the mist, control isn't demanded—it dissolves. And still, he tells himself he is the one chasing. That he is in control of the descent.

But the signs say otherwise.

He changes his sleep schedule. Switches tea blends. Test supplements. Anything to quicken the fog’s arrival. The dreams have become more than refuge—they are a necessity. And she, the woman wrapped in mist and memory, waits with hands that never judge and eyes that see too deeply.

With her, he finds the one thing power has never given him.

Rest.

At first, it’s silent between them. Comfortable. Wordless.

But then one night, the fog offers sound.

Not speech—music. Strange and nostalgic, like a song half-heard through a wall. She leads him by the hand to where instruments wait in the haze. Keys. Strings. Pipes. They’re unfamiliar. He’s never been good with them. Never been good with sound.

But she is.

She teaches with laughter, not pressure. Every wrong note earns a smile. Every fumbling chord becomes a shared secret. Her fingers guide his over organ keys, and his hands remember what his mind does not. She hums, and somehow, impossibly, their mismatched voices blend. She makes even his tone-deaf efforts feel like something worth hearing.

He doesn’t remember learning to sing. Not really. But he remembers her.

He remembers the way she made music feel like home.

Later dreams shift, carrying the scent of dust and vinyl. She slips an old record into his hand, eyes twinkling. The fog stretches, transforms into a glowing ballroom of their own making. Music crackles to life. Strings swell. She doesn’t wait for grace or rhythm. She just pulls him in.

They dance.

He stumbles. She laughs. Her joy becomes the rhythm.

She spins him beneath phantom chandeliers, teaches him to listen to the beat beneath chaos, to find the melody tucked inside silence. When she draws him to the organ once more, her hands overlap his—steady, warm, unwavering. The chords swell, and the music becomes something more than sound. It becomes memory. Connection. Surrender.

He wakes, sometimes, with the ghost of harmony still in his fingertips.

He plays nothing perfectly. He sings with no training. But now, in the depths of the night—when others might sleep, but his world is wide awake, lawless and lit by neon—he finds silence between sounds. He puts on that same record—an old one he tracked down obsessively, heart pounding—and hums along to the notes they once made together in the dream.

He knows she’s not real.

And yet, in every bar of music, in every off-key note he dares to sing alone, she lives.

In the quiet hours, guilt settles in.

He tells himself he shouldn’t need her this much. That the fog is not for the living. That there are things to do, roles to maintain, people who count on him.

But none of that exists in the dream.

In the fog, there are no titles. No mistakes. No expectations. Just the hush between heartbeats, and the feel of her breath against his—steady, present, anchoring him when he’s drifting too far.

Here, he’s not falling apart.

He’s just… held.

He stays in bed longer. Forgets the days. Lets calls go unanswered. Responsibilities gather like dust in corners he can’t face. He knows he's breaking—but he hides it well.

And when he sleeps, she’s there to hold the pieces.

One night, the fog brings warmth, not from passion, but from the kitchen.

She’s laughing as he burns the rice, smoke curling up like incense. There’s a rhythm in the way she stirs the pot, a song in the sizzle and crackle of oil. The kitchen becomes a kind of sanctuary. Cluttered. Lived-in. Intimate.

He doesn’t remember learning to cook. But he remembers how she made it feel like love.

Every spill, every ruined dish became a shared story. A memory stitched into the quiet moments between them. The burnt rice becomes a symbol—not of failure, but of comfort. Of being seen in his imperfection and still being treasured.

He remembers the way she pointed to the sky one night, eyes full of stars, and told him to chase it. Told him he could.

He loved planes before he understood why.

But in the dream, it’s clear.

He loved them because she made him believe he could fly.

That he was brave enough. Strong enough.

Because once, in the fragile hours between fear and morning, she had been the one to shield him. To tell him he was more than the weight he carried. That being soft didn’t mean being weak. That courage wasn’t loud—it was the choice to rise again, even when broken.

She had protected him first.

And in doing so, taught him how to protect others.

He wakes with the scent of burnt rice still clinging to him, with phantom warmth pressed to his back and the echo of her voice in his ears.

He forgets the dream by midday.

But when he sees the sky—open, endless, waiting—he always looks up.

And then, one night—

She’s not beside him.

The fog curls differently. The dream doesn’t offer warmth, but memory.

Something old. Familiar.

But something’s wrong.

She hesitates.

Smiles bloom. Laughter echoes. But there’s a flicker in her eyes, a tremble in her hands, a pause before she reaches for him.

His past self doesn’t notice.

But he does.

And the ache returns, sharper than before.

He’s no longer part of the moment. No longer the one she turns to. He has returned to being a spectator—watching through the veil as something sacred slips away. Watching as the moment tilts, as the intimacy falters, as she begins to fade.

This was the beginning. The first slip. The moment she started to disappear.

And he hadn't seen it.

Until now.

The fog has never lied. Not truly. It gave him comfort. Connection. Her.

But now it offers something else:

Truth.

Bit by bit.

She was there. She loved them. And then—something changed.

The question lingers like smoke in his lungs:

Why did she leave?

And why did they let her?

The fog returns, soft but sad.

The comfort remains. But so does the wound. Because something is coming.

And this time, he can’t afford to look away.

Writer's note: Oh my goodness! Thank you all so much for your support throughout this series. I'm still very (happily) overwhelmed but your replies, likes and feedback. I really never saw myself ever having a very accomplished little story, much less a series, but everyone's love and support truly motivates me to continue. So, thank you all once again for your support. I'm very grateful.

#love and deepspace #lads x non mc #lad x non mc #zayne love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #zayne x non mc! reader #xavier x non mc! reader #rafayel x non! mc reader #sylus x non! mc reader #caleb x non mc! reader #non mc reader #youtube #fluff #hurt/comfort

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spr1ngpvrinbwunnie · 1 month ago

Text

Harley Sawyer, touch-starved without knowing what "longing" means

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Credit art: dovewingkinnie

Notes: Nothing new, just shitty headcanon probably ooc but here your food

He doesn't realize it at first.

He thinks it's just… curiosity. Or maybe an anomaly in his programming. Why he watches the footage of you for longer than necessary. Why he replays the moments where you laugh, frown, or sit in silence, not even doing anything “interesting.” Why his body doubles, those puppeted shells, drift closer to your proximity even when they have no orders to.

So when he summons you with that excuse—“I need a sample, for… scientific classification, yes, that”—he plays it off so smoothly.

Until you come close.

Too close.

And he doesn't pull away.

No, the screen of his face leans in—presses to your cheek. It’s cool glass, humming with electricity. One of his robotic arms twitches, wanting to reach out but not knowing what it wants to do once it gets there.

He goes silent for a moment. Too long.

Then:

“It’s for data retention,” he mutters. “Just… don’t move.”

But his voice cracks just slightly. Not from emotion. Just… wear.

Because the truth is, he’s never had anything close to affection. Not in his human life, and certainly not in this warped, unkillable existence he’s trapped in now.

And in this silence, with you standing there—warm, alive, tangible—it hits him.

That maybe he's not just bored.

Maybe he's lonely.

Maybe… he's aching.

And it terrifies him.

"Love" is a foreign concept—but you're teaching him without words

He doesn’t think in the language of love. He doesn’t get it the way people talk about it in films or books. But he understands obsession. He understands fixation. He understands not wanting to let go.

And you—you give him something that isn’t cold. You touch his robots without fear. You talk to the cameras like he’s a person. You ask him if he’s eaten (he hasn’t, and doesn’t need to, but your question makes him pause). You annoy him in a way that doesn’t push him away, it pulls him in.

You're the first thing he’s ever wanted to reach for.

Even if he doesn’t know why.

Even if the idea of “love” is still too fragile, too terrifying for him to say aloud.

So when he presses his screen to your cheek again... it’s not for science.

It's a glitch in his code.

A rupture in his logic.

A moment of tenderness from a man who forgot he still had any left.

And when you don’t pull away—when you lean into it, just slightly—

He doesn’t say anything.

But his screen glows a soft gold for a second.

Then flickers red again.

Then fades into static.

And in the silence, he whispers—not for science,

But maybe for hope:

“Don’t leave yet.”

Just that.

Quiet. Uncharacteristically small.

But real.

And that’s the first time he realizes:

He doesn’t just want to study you.

He wants to keep you.

Bonus headcanons time!

🧠 He doesn’t dream—but he replays old memories like they could’ve been dreams.

He doesn’t sleep. Not anymore. But in the empty hours of power-saving mode, when all systems go quiet, he replays fragments of his past:

The rustle of his lab coat.

The sterile lighting of his office.

The time he laughed—just once—at something no one else heard.

Sometimes, he overlays your voice onto these memories. He doesn’t know why. But it feels safer. Like maybe the past could’ve gone differently if you’d been there.

He’d never admit it, but he’s afraid of forgetting the man he once was. You become a mental placeholder, a safeguard against total deterioration. Even if it’s not real.

"If I rewrite the past enough times," he wonders, "do I get to keep something human inside me?"

🧍‍♂️He made one of the puppeted vessels… to resemble you.

You never saw it. He never told you.

But deep in a section of the factory you’ve never entered, there's a broken-down body he tried to mold after your form. Not perfect—he’s working with scrap and code, not flesh and soul—but enough that, for a flickering second, it resembled the way you smiled.

He didn’t do it to copy you.

He did it because he wanted something close.

Close to you. Close to warmth. Something he could protect, even if it’s just a shell.

When he realized what he’d made, he dismantled it.

But sometimes the leftover parts move on their own, as if some echo of you remains.

🗣️ He doesn’t know how to say “I love you.” So he says: “You’re a variable I can’t solve.”

You’ll never hear the words “I love you” from his mouth—not in a traditional way. But he has his own vocabulary:

“You’re interfering with my logic functions.”

“Every time I rerun the sequence, you’re still the constant.”

“You ruin my calculations.”

“I can’t delete you.”

They’re his versions of love confessions—twisted, brilliant, broken—but honest. And he only says them in glitches, when his voice stutters, like the words are too big for him to process all at once.

You’ve learned to hear the affection behind the madness.

And he’s quietly grateful you never ask him to say it outright.

🤖 His minions bring you little “gifts”… and he pretends not to care.

The Nightmare Critters, the Yarnabies, the hazmat bodies—they’ll often drop odd things at your feet:

A wrench that’s been polished clean.

A tape recorder that replays a static-covered voice saying “Stay close.”

A cracked lens with your reflection perfectly caught in it.

You know they’re from him. He says they're "irrelevant anomalies," but his voice always lags slightly when he says it.

It’s the robotic equivalent of love notes passed in class.

Quiet acts of affection, hidden under layers of denial and protocol.

💡 He started designing new parts… “just in case you needed armor.”

Late at night, when you’re not watching, he works on blueprints. Enhancements. Protective coatings. Reactions to trauma simulations you might never face—but what if you did?

He’s not building these for just anyone.

He's building them for you.

Because in his mind, if he can’t touch you, if he can’t feel you—then the least he can do is keep you safe.

And he doesn’t know how to say that.

So he calls it an “upgrade initiative.”

But really?

It’s a promise.

#the doctor #poppy playtime #harley sawyer #harley sawyer x reader #poppy playtime x reader #the doctor x reader #ppt #ppt chapter 4 #poppy playtime chapter 4 #dr harley sawyer #dr harley x reader #poppy playtime chapter 4 x reader #x reader imagine #x reader #╰₊✧ ﾟ⚬𓂂➢ 👁📺💉🩸

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