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sixeyesonathiel · 2 months ago

Text

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

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

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

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

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

the compressor’s peaking again.

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

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

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

ping.

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

you.

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

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

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

“no,” he types, then erases it.

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

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

i guess. send what you have.

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

flashback.exe

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

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

but you were different.

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

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

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

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

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

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

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

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

typical.

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

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

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

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

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

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

he watches again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he’s close. too close.

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

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

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

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

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

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

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

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

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

np.

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

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

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

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

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

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

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

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

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

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

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

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

to replay your giggle.

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

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

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

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

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

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

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

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

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

ping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he freezes.

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

you giggle.

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

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

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

satoru’s fingers twitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he tries to normalize it.

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

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

he tells himself he’s just learning.

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

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

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

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

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

the next class is worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a new text lights up his screen:

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

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

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

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

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

he hates himself.

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

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

it starts with static in his skull.

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

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

it doesn’t help.

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

satoru’s trying.

really.

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

2:03 a.m.

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

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

march haul (raw).mp4

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

click.

of course he does.

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

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

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

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

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

he knows it.

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

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

he does.

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

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he doesn’t blink.

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

he can’t breathe.

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

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

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

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

but it’s you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it’s been three weeks.

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

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

the worst part?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

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

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

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

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

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

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

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

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

baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

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

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

it starts with a ping.

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

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

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

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

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

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

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

satoru doesn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your silence makes him spiral.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

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

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

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

“i know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“mine.”

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

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

friday’s going to be filthy.

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phoenixyfriend · 6 months ago

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Star Wars Time Travel Rec List

About time I put together a General Rec List for Star Wars Time Travel, yeah?

Organized by the time-traveling character(s). I'm adding a star for my favorites that imo you have to read. I'm not going to claim that those are necessarily the best, because I feel like that's not objective and also kinda mean to the ones that are good since they might just not be to my personal taste, but they are my favorites.

Obi-Wan

Anakin Skywalker

Ahsoka

Clones

Other Prequels-Era Characters

Two or more people

Luke or Leia

Other

Tagged authors where I could. If they aren't tagged, I either couldn't find their tumblr, they have their settings such that no one can tag them, or they blocked me for one reason or another.

Obi-Wan

It Was Another Time and I Another Man by Pell_Binterhol - under "Groups"

Ashes To Ashes, Dust To Dust by @livsy ~35k+, complete Obi-Wan is a time traveler, mental from the OT. What makes it unique is that the fic is from Anakin's POV. It's a very heartwarming piece.

⭐Take it from the top and try again by @mauverawrites ~170k, series - two fics complete, more on the way Possibly the best way to describe this series is as the platonic ideal of an Obi-Wan time travel fic. Weird Force stuff? Check. Obi-Wan having spent years on Tatooine? Check. Qui-Gon surviving? Check. Obi-Wan doing some shady illegal stuff to get money and infiltrate crime rings so he can save the galaxy? Check. Anakin being adorable as an initiate, and Shmi being saved from Tatooine? Check. Surprise Feemor? Check. It's all the bits you (or at least I) hope for when opening a new Obi-Wan Time Travel fic, and it never feels stale or repetitive or cliche. It's just a Very Good Fic.

The Exchange by @misslearn - under "Groups"

An Abundance of Obi-Wans by The_Last_Kenobi (orphan_account) ~45k, abandoned Unfortunately we'll never know how this ends, but it's a lot of fun while it lasts. Baby Obi is being haunted by three ghosts of his future self.

A Padawan at War (Again) by @itstimeforstarwars - under "Groups"

Free Jedi to Good Home by @itstimeforstarwars- under "Groups"

These Paths by HiddenEye - under "Groups"

⭐the massive machinery of hope by @killbothtwins 150k, complete Do you want comedy? Yes, you do. This one is great. Go read it. It's one of my favorites for a reason, and the reason is that Obi-Wan is a sarcastic little shit with a billion quips.

Living Memory by elsa3beth 353k, on hiatus, possibly abandoned? Obi-Wan Time Travel, leans a bit more heavily into the distrust and despair surrounding Anakin (due to Vader things from the future) than most.

⭐The Desert Storm/Rise and Fall by @blue-sunshine-mauve-morning ~1.6m (1592k), ongoing This is one of the longest, most consistent, best-regarded time-travel fics in the fandom for a reason.

⭐Reprise by Elfpen ~560k, ongoing Another Obi-Wan time-travel fic, this one using that favored cover story of "Ben is Obi-Wan's biological uncle," and I love it so much for how it explores both characters and political events.

Realign the Stars by @fortunerainwrites, @TerinAngel - under "Groups"

Current of Fate by @feybarn ~195k, on hiatus? It's been so long since I read this one that I can't quite remember what it was that I liked about it so much, and it's too long to do a reread right now... but I do remember loving it, especially when it switches to an outsider POV for the second fic.

Anakin Skywalker

The Exchange by @misslearn - under "Groups"

A Padawan at War (Again) by @itstimeforstarwars - under "Groups"

Free Jedi to Good Home by @itstimeforstarwars - under "Groups"

War Drums by @intermundia ~91k, ongoing Vader travels back to TPM. Runs off with Obi-Wan into the stars to Achieve Some Goals to take down Sidious. Gets quick-aged to 19 by some Dathomiri magic. Projected to be Obikin.

These Paths by HiddenEye - under "Groups"

Old Promises by @threebea ~65k, ongoing Time Traveler Anakin panic-kidnaps Initiate Kenobi. Absolute disaster of a man.

An (Un)fortunate Haunting by @kooriicolada, @scarletjedi 3.5k, oneshot Anakin thinks the Vader ghost haunting him is a hallucination. This one is technically more than just Anakin, but it's... mostly Anakin.

⭐Force of Many Sights by DAsObiQuiet ~480k, on hiatus? Vader to TPM, possessing his younger self. This fic has a heavy, and much-appreciated focus on therapy as it functions for someone of Vader's... particular situation. This is also technically a "Groups" series, since it's also got Siri Tachi as a time-traveler, but her POV is much smaller, and it takes... I want to say about 100k words for her to really start playing a more active role in the plot.

Realign the Stars by @fortunerainwrites, @TerinAngel - under "Groups"

Ahsoka

I don't know why all the good Ahsoka time travel fics are her as part of a team, but they do in fact fuck, so. I LIED I forgot to bookmark one of the Ahsoka fics I like.

Free Jedi to Good Home by @itstimeforstarwars - under "Groups"

These Paths by HiddenEye - under "Groups"

Realign the Stars by @fortunerainwrites, @TerinAngel - under "Groups"

Living in Borrowed Time by @scribbling-albatross - under "groups"

⭐Although He Smiles by @autumnillustration - ~157.6k, ongoing This one is amazing, it's an Ahsoka main, and she is very funny with Padawan Obi-Wan and adorable with 9yo Anakin. Lovely.

Clones

love is with your brother by Petrichor (Mythmaker) ~8k, complete TCW Rex bodyswaps with his baby self. POV is Ahsoka during the clone wars.

Free Jedi to Good Home by @itstimeforstarwars - under "Groups"

These Paths by HiddenEye - Rex and Cody - under "Groups"

Realign the Stars by @fortunerainwrites, @TerinAngel - Rex and Cody - under "Groups"

Living in Borrowed Time by @scribbling-albatross - Rex - Under "Groups"

⭐Dominoes by meridianpony ~380k, ongoing All five Dominoes go back to the beginning, from the points of their deaths! (Disclaimer: Echo's treated as having died at the Citadel. I think the fic started before his survival was revealed.) Technically this is a group, but all five are clones, so...

Other Prequels-Era Characters

there is no death by @ashkav ~140k, ongoing There is something really cool about Cal Kestis time travel fics, especially when he's got a decent amount of knowledge of The General Situations (e.g. Anakin will become Vader) but is missing so many details, like Why and How.

⭐An Echo in the Force (a whisper in a cave by @stardust2flame ~8k, complete Feemor is trapped in a time loop. This was actually written as a gift to me, so it has a special place in my heart.

⭐Mace Windu Fixes the Timeline... And Breaks it in Whole New Ways by AbsentmindedAuthor98 ~52k, ongoing Absolutely choice series based on an AU by @suzukiblu. Mace Windu does some time-traveling. He takes on Anakin as his padawan on an impulse, but he ends up doing his damnedest to be a Good Master for the kid. Depa helps.

Twilight on Owl Creek Bridge by @yellowocaballero - Fox - under "Groups"

Make a Brand New End by @batshieroglyphics ~120k, I think on hiatus Another Feemor fic! This one's not time-loop, just time travel. Lots of juicy Qui-Gon drama.

⭐Not a Good Man by @feybarn ~28k, ongoing Imperial era Boba Fett goes back to AotC. He decides to fix things, partly by trying to get his dad to fall in love with Obi-Wan Kenobi.

a distant fire is burning by e_va ~47.5k, ongoing This is another Cal fic! It's got video game logic in it. Also, Anakin and Cal are both being so weird about sort of being adoptive brothers, it's great.

⭐They Don't Care About Us by @ironhoshi Time traveler Boba! And Cal! They're doing great, sweetie. Their best. Obi-Wan and Jango are mostly just confused. (Has anyone checked on Anakin? Someone needs to go check on Anakin. Again.)

Groups

It Was Another Time and I Another Man by Pell_Binterhol ~200k, incomplete This is a very fun fic that involves multiple time-travelers from multiple points in time. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon from the Legends novels are pulled forward into TCW, and Old Ben and Luke are pulled back from the OT, and some spoilers as well.

⭐The Exchange by @misslearn ~120k, complete A swapping-style time travel. RotS Anakin&Obi-Wan end up in TPM, and TPM Anakin&Obi-Wan end up in RotS. Shenanigans ensue. (Also trauma.)

⭐Can We Start Over? by @triscribe ~22k, ongoing Most of the Jedi have time-traveled from the points of their deaths to about a year pre-AotC. Some handle it better than others. The POV is Aayla, which I find very cool.

A Padawan at War (Again) by @itstimeforstarwars ~183k, ongoing It's technically more of a de-aging than a time-travel, but hey! Still a good read! TPM Anakin and Obi-Wan take the place of their TCW selves, who no longer exist.

⭐Free Jedi to Good Home by @itstimeforstarwars ~complicated as the second fic has been hidden, ongoing This is one of my favorite series, but as you can see by the above, it's in a bit of a timeout right now. Bookmark it for later? Also, there's an entire side series called Inspired By One Hundred Hours To Rearrange The Stars.

These Paths by HiddenEye ~90k, complete Our five TCW mains (Obi-Wan, Cody, Anakin, Ahsoka, Rex) are booted forward to the Original Trilogy. The latter three are deaged to their TPM ages (9, 4, baby respectively). Also it's CodyWan.

Twilight on Owl Creek Bridge by @yellowocaballero ~33k, complete Leia and Fox time travel! This one is very dark. That said, it has a comedic counterpart that I love, which is only available on tumblr: ⭐Fox & Leia's Holiday Special

⭐Realign the Stars by @fortunerainwrites, @TerinAngel ~68k, abandoned Obi-Wan, Anakin, Ahsoka, Rex, and Cody, from TCW to TPM. Despite the unfinished state, I cannot deny the oddly intense level of influence this fic has had on my own approach to star wars time travel fics.

⭐Living in Borrowed Time by @scribbling-albatross 118k, ongoing Rex and Ahsoka are time-travelers! They are so, so very fucked up. Sure do wish they had access to therapists that could actually be cleared for knowing their Extensive Lists Of Traumas. This one definitely had a huge impact on how I characterize Rex and Ahsoka since I entered the fandom.

Luke and Leia

Twilight on Owl Creek Bridge by @yellowocaballero - Leia - under "Groups"

There is another Skywalker by WabiSabi ~85k, on hiatus? Time-Traveler Leia! Mentally in the sequels, physically in her thirties, and chronologically in the clone wars. Also Luke's sharing space in her noggin.

Shifting Sands by @chancecraz ~180k, ongoing "Ongoing? But it hasn't updated since 2021!" The last time it updated, the chapter was 65k, after over two years of radio silence. Trust me when I say that the lack of recent updates means nothing for this author. Anyway, Sequels Leia to about a year pre-TPM, hangs out with baby Anakin and Shmi and then neatly inserts herself in the plot.

⭐Of Queens, Knights, and Pawns by @chancecraz ~860k, ongoing Same author as above, same disclaimer for the gap since last update. Sequels Leia does a mental time-travel into her ANH self, specifically the 'being tortured on the Death Star' moment. It's so fucking good.

Old Man Luke by @scarletjedi ~110k, ongoing Sequels Luke to TCW! He is very cryptic, channeling the Jedi who taught him! Fun!

⭐Sith Lord Swell by AMournfulHowlInTheNight ~53k, ongoing Luke and his students (including Ben Solo) travel back in time to a bit before AotC. They decide the best way to proceed is to pretend they are Sith Lords. This is primarily a comedy fic. Luke really enjoys fucking with people.

⭐Don't Look Back by @this-acuteneurosis ~700k, ongoing Post-OT Leia (after the deaths of most of her friends) physically time travels to a year or two before AotC. She is taken in by the Lars family, and then she and Shmi start to head for Coruscant, run into Padme, and join the Nabooan government in Padme's employ. Do you want a fic that feels like 70% politics and logistics and trade routes? Because that's what this is and it's great.

Other

The Way of Conquest by pagination ~76k, ongoing There is something very funny about the time-traveler not even realizing they are about thirty years into the wrong time. Din has no idea when he is. Grogu does, but he's not telling.

#time travel #phoenix recs #star wars #the clone wars #sw prequels #sw ot #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #ahsoka tano #captain rex #commander cody #feemor #mace windu #luke skywalker #leia organa #din djarin #cal kestis #commander fox #boba fett

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kyri45 · 11 months ago

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✨The Jades are here!✨️

-✦- CURRENT PROJECTS -✦-

ISAT: Sky CotL AU

LMK: ShadowPeach Bio Parents AU

-> SBP: Second Star

My character Illustration Course!

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Multifandom 24 y/o professional fanartist from Nord Italy. I've worked for projects alongside creators like Alex Hirsch, Dana Terrace, Matt Braly & Rebecca Sugar. I make prints, sticker and tons of comics based on my current hyperfixations

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#my art #isat sky cotl au #shadowpeach bio parents au

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kiwriteswords · 4 months ago

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Our Secret Moments in Crowded Rooms [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader] *

Ki2k Masterlist||MainMasterlist (not updated, sorry!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 2.5k|| AN: Combined a little thirsty thursday smut with 5+1 weekend prompt for one of my last Ki2k fics! ||Requests are still open for Ki2k!!

Tags/Warnings: female reader, sexting, nudes, 5+1, mdni, smutty themes, sexual themes, bau!reader, lingerie, implied age gap

Summary: Five times you send Aaron Hotchner a dirty text message, and the one time he sends you one.

The first time you did it was in the bustling conference room, everyone’s attention had been squarely focused on Erin Strauss, who was remotely detailing the future financial directions for the BAU.

Hotch sat with his usual impeccable posture at the head of the table, a fortress of professionalism.

The entire team--Rossi, Derek, Emily, JJ, Penelope, and Spencer--were present, occasionally exchanging weary glances or stifled yawns. The atmosphere was stifling with budget talk and strategic projections.

You, well aware of how mundane these meetings could be, decided to add a spark of excitement.

From across the table, you could see Hotch’s phone next to his notepad, the screen innocently dark. Remembering the daring photo you had snapped the night before--just a little something in very revealing lingerie--you couldn’t resist.

Quietly, with a mischievous smile, you selected the photo and sent it to him, your heart thumping with a mix of nervousness and thrill.

The moment the phone buzzed, Hotch’s hand moved reflexively to check it, a motion masked by the table. His expression, typically unreadable, faltered for a split second as he viewed the message. His eyes widened imperceptibly, a flush creeping up his neck--an uncommon sight. He locked the phone quickly, placing it face down with more force than necessary, his fingers tensing around the edges.

Rossi, sitting beside him, noticed the subtle change. Leaning closer under the guise of discussing the budget, he whispered with a hint of amusement, "Rough numbers, Aaron?"

Hotch, catching himself, gave Rossi a small nod and a wry, controlled smile, "Something like that," before turning his attention back to Strauss.

From the corner, Derek watched the exchange with a raised eyebrow, leaning back in his chair as he murmured to Emily, "Seems like the budget's more interesting than we thought." Emily covered a chuckle with her hand, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

Penelope, ever the sleuth for gossip, shot you a knowing look from across the table, her interest clearly piqued. Spencer, on the other hand, looked from one person to another, confused by the sudden shift in dynamics but deciding it was just another quirk of team interactions he'd yet to understand.

As the meeting wrapped up, Hotch stood, adjusting his suit jacket with a nervous energy. Passing by you, he murmured low enough for only you to hear, "Nice photo," a stern look on his face but his tone warm with appreciation.

The second time, with a sly smile, you observed Hotch through the glass window of his office, his face etched with stress as he furiously penned down reports. The deep lines on his forehead spoke volumes of the pressure he was under. Inspired to ease his burden and inject a spark of youthfulness into his day, you knew just the trick to divert his attention and perhaps elicit a more relaxed expression.

Pulling out your phone, you crafted a risqué text, teasing and bold:

"If I were there right now, those reports wouldn't be the only thing spread out on your desk..."

Your fingers hesitated only a moment before sending it, your heart fluttering with a mix of anticipation and mischief. You then fixed your gaze on him, watching as his intense focus on the reports was interrupted by the buzz of his phone.

Hotch paused, his hand reaching automatically for the device. He read your message, and for a moment, he seemed frozen; the pen halted mid-air. Then, slowly, a smile creased his usually stern face, and he shook his head in disbelief at your audacity. The stress lines seemed to smooth as his eyes lit up with a mix of amusement and something more intense, more fiery.

After a brief moment, his fingers began to move rapidly over the screen. You waited, curious and a bit nervous about what his reply might entail. The phone buzzed in your hand, and you glanced down to read his response. The words on the screen were shockingly bold and flirtatious:

“Promise to handle me with more care than those reports? Because that’s an offer I’d hate to file away for later.”

Hotch was playing along, stepping up to your challenge with a surprising flair.

Looking up, you caught his gaze through the window. He was watching you, a smug smirk replacing the usual stoic expression. His eyes twinkled with mischief, clearly pleased with the exchange. The atmosphere between you, charged with a playful yet palpable tension, promised more daring banter and perhaps some interesting developments once the workday ended.

The third time, the BAU team was scattered across hotel rooms, weary from a long day on a challenging case. With the set protocol firmly in place, you and Hotch had separate rooms to maintain professionalism while on duty. But knowing the kind of pressure Hotch was under, especially after the particularly tough day he'd had, you felt a compassionate urge to offer him a bit of a reprieve--even if it was a bold move given your agreement.

As you settled into the solitude of your room, you remembered Hotch’s tense expression earlier that evening; his jaw set firm, his eyes shadowed with the weight of the day. The image spurred a mischievous yet caring idea.

With a quiet resolve, you decided to take a daring step to ease his stress. You took a moment to set the scene in your dimly lit room, ensuring the ambiance was just right, subtle yet inviting. Then, with a deep breath, you snapped a tasteful yet undeniably sexy nude photo of yourself, one that accentuated your curves and held an artistic flair.

You hesitated for a moment, considering the implications, but your desire to lighten his mood won out. You sent the photo to Hotch with a simple, flirty message attached:

“Wish you were here...”

Minutes ticked by, each one stretching longer than the last as you awaited his response. Finally, your phone buzzed. Hotch’s reply was succinct, yet it carried a depth of emotion that was rare for him to express in words:

“Thank you, that means a lot right now. We *definitely* need to discuss vacation plans soon.”

Though brief, his message conveyed a warmth and appreciation that reassured you. It was clear your gesture had touched him, perhaps more because of the sentiment behind it than the photo itself. It was a small, intimate exchange, but it reinforced the deep connection between you, straddling the line between professional boundaries and personal support.

The fourth time, was after a fight.

If you were asked what even started the fight, you’re not sure you could remember. It was that silly.

As the tension from the silly argument lingered in the air of your shared apartment, you could feel the heaviness of Hotch's aggravation from the other room. Despite the trivial nature of the disagreement, his mood had soured, a rare occurrence that left the atmosphere charged with a silent stiffness.

Knowing you had already moved past the disagreement and sensing that the prolonged silence was doing neither of you any favors, you decided it was time to lighten the mood and mend fences in a way that would catch him off-guard yet remind him of the deeper bond you shared.

With a playful resolution, you typed out a message from the comfort of the living room while he remained secluded in the study. Your fingers danced over the phone’s keyboard with a flirty intention:

“Truce? I’m wearing the smile you gave me...and not much else. Come and make sure it stays on?”

You hit send, a small smile playing on your lips as you anticipated his reaction, hoping to dissolve the remnants of his frustration.

It didn’t take long for the sound of shifting furniture to reach your ears, followed by the soft but rapid footsteps approaching. The door creaked open, and Hotch stood there, a slight smile breaking through his earlier demeanor. His eyes softened, humor mixed with affection warming his gaze as he took in your playful stance.

“I suppose that’s an offer too good to ignore,” he responded, the tension melting away as he stepped into the room, extending his hand in a peace offering and a promise of a heartfelt reconciliation.

The fifth time was a present of sorts--a prelude to the actual gift.

For Hotch’s birthday, you had planned something extra special to end the day on a memorable note. Knowing he would be in the office later than usual due to a crucial meeting, you seized the opportunity to prepare a surprise that was sure to delight him.

After slipping out of work a bit early, you ventured to a boutique and selected a stunning piece of lingerie, intricately designed and bold, perfect for the occasion.

Once home, you carefully arranged the lingerie, adorning yourself as if you were a gift needing unwrapping. The silky fabric felt luxurious against your skin, and you couldn’t help but feel a mix of nerves and excitement at the thought of his reaction.

However, as time ticked by and Hotch’s meeting dragged on longer than you expected, the initial thrill began to wane, replaced by impatient anticipation.

To regain the spark and signal to Hotch the evening awaiting him, you positioned yourself in front of the bedroom mirror. The reflection that stared back at you was enticing--a playful yet irresistible invitation.

You snapped a suggestive photo, the angle and lighting accentuating the curves and contours hugged by the lace and silk. Attaching a flirty message, you sent it to him:

“Hurry home...your birthday present is waiting to be unwrapped.”

Moments later, your phone buzzed with his response, his words fueling your anticipation further:

“That’s the best motivation to end this meeting early. Save me some wrapping to tear into when I get there.”

His message, a perfect blend of tease and affection, reassured you that the evening would be as thrilling as you had envisioned.

Now, all that was left was the waiting, each minute stretching out with the promise of the celebration to come.

Your fingers raced over the phone’s keyboard, your tone playful and a bit teasing. Deciding to cross the line even further, you hoped this would be good motivation to hurry up and get here:

"I might start without you...Can’t promise I’ll be patient much longer."

You were surprised when you saw the next message come in just as soon as you sent yours, meaning he was watching and waiting for your next move.

"Now, that would be a crime. Give me 20 minutes. I'm leaving now."

Now, this could be fun. You chuckled softly, the excitement tingling through you as you typed another message, hinting at the evening's impending delights.

"20 minutes? I guess I’ll just have to find some way to occupy myself...Maybe I’ll start with the ribbon."

Twenty minutes? You knew very well the apartment was more-like thirty minutes away and Mister-I-Don’t-Go-That-Much-Above-The-Speed-Limit wouldn’t test that tonight.

"Hold off on that ribbon. I want the full experience of unwrapping my gift. Consider it an order from your unit chief."

The reply was quick, infused with affection and a hint of mischief. You toyed with the edge of the lingerie, truly wishing time travel was a thing right now. You took a deep, shuttering breath and decided to be patient. It was his birthday, after all.

“Yes, sir! I’ll be here...waiting and ready for inspection."

Poking the buttons had seemed to become your specialty. You knew if you wanted him here quicker, you might as well stop texting, but this game was far too fun.

"Stay just like that. I’m rushing home. And, just so you know, you’ve already made this the best birthday yet."

Although you had already made the unknowing promise to fulfill his birthday dreams tonight, you knew now to amp it up a little--following through with that best birthday ever.

And then there was the one time that Aaron Hotchner truly---yes, truly, surprised you.

He always surprised you, to be fair. His intelligence, his thoughtfulness, his quick-wit...all of it.

But his ability to adapt to sexting? At work?! Now, this was a surprise.

It was a slow afternoon at the office, and the BAU team had just wrapped up a case. You were busily organizing files at your desk when your phone vibrated subtly beside your keyboard.

Expecting a mundane work-related message or perhaps a reminder, you were surprised to see Hotch's name lighting up the screen. Curiosity piqued, you swiped open the message, your eyebrows rising in surprise at the content.

"Thinking about last night...can't get it out of my mind. How do you manage to do that?"

Flashbacks of last night passed by in your brain. It was a great night, you can’t deny that. A day of tension that turned into some perfect stress relief--stress relief that went on for quite a long time, mind you.

You glanced around to ensure no one was peering over your shoulder before replying:

"I could ask you the same. But I’m glad it's stuck with you. Keeps the day interesting, doesn't it?"

There was a short pause during which you continued your work, albeit with a slightly distracted air. Soon, your phone vibrated again.

You couldn’t believe your eyes; he was truly sexting you.

In the middle of the workday.

In the middle of the BAU.

"Very interesting...and speaking of interesting, what if I told you I’m looking forward to more? Might even have a surprise for you tonight."

The vague hint at something more made your heart skip a beat. The tension between your legs began to grow too, suddenly wanting--needing some friction.

You tapped out a response, your fingers moving swiftly over the phone’s keypad:

“Now you’ve made me curious...and a little impatient. Should I be preparing anything?"

And horny. You wanted to reply.

"Just yourself. Maybe wear that necklace I like--and nothing else."

Holy shit. You looked around and life was funny this way. The rest of the world continuing on as if you weren’t sitting here ready to run up and fuck Aaron Hotchner in the middle of the work day. You knew you couldn’t, but the idea...the idea kept crossing your mind. Just like you crossed your legs in hopes it would help with the sudden ache that sat there.

"Consider it done. I’m counting the minutes until I can see what you’ve planned."

You could almost hear his deep, even tone through the text, serious yet playful. The conversation was uncharacteristically bold for Hotch, especially during work hours, showing a side of him that rarely came out in the open. This unexpected twist in your routine day made the hours seem to drag as anticipation built.

"Count faster. I’ll be home by seven."

You were sure that sexting with Hotch was by far your new favorite thing.

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ghosty-writes-23 · 5 months ago

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Kneeling Before Her. - Leon S Kennedy.

Ghosty's Notes: okay so this was a random idea I had randomly thinking about Wife!FemReader + Older!Leon (Between Damnation & Vendetta.) also I wrote this on my phone which is something I don't normally do, but it's like 2am and I can't be stuffed grabbing my laptop, so please forgive me if their is alot of spelling mistakes.

Summary: Y/n and Leon had been fighting alot lately, but even with how much they where fighting it didn't stop them from desiring each other.

NSFW Tags: Smutty Content, Eating Out, Pleading, Body Worship, Desperate!Husband!Leon, Hope for the future, Happy Ending.

Used Pet Names: Darling, Sweetheart, Princess, Love, Good Boy, My Wife.

| ID!PROFESSOR!LEON COMING IN 2 DAYS |

!Unedited!

Word Count: 1.9k

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Thank you for all the support, it means alot❤️

-Ghosty :] ❤️🦝

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Y/n and Leon had been fighting alot recently, from small things such as dirty dishes in the sink to Y/n tripping over Leon's alcohol bottles and she had enough. Tonight was like any other night, Leon was coming home from a mission and smelt like a brewery, the pair had argued yet again, Y/n was upset Leon had come home drunk and Leon was trying to justify he wasn't that drunk yet he could barley walk a straight line, she had guested one of the staff from the bar had called him a taxi because there was no way in hell he would be able to drive in the state he was in.

Sometimes she felt as if Leon treated her as if she was dumb, she knew this wasn't what he really thought of her, but when he was drunk he would treat her as if she was an idiot and it was getting on her last nerve, there is only so much a person can take before they snap, as Leon passed out on the living room couch Y/n had thrown a blanket over him and left a bottle of water and Advil on the coffee table before going upstairs to what used to be their shared bedroom.

Leon mostly slept in the spare bedroom when he was home, it was strange feeling to feel alone in her own house even with Leon home. Shaking her head Y/n closed the door and started to get ready for bed, such as doing her nightly routine of showering, changing into comfortable pajamas, drying her hair and doing nightly skincare and brushing her teeth and taking the last of her medication for the day.

When she got into bed, she couldn't help but wonder how did her and Leon's relationship end up like this, she knew Leon had alot of trauma before they had met, he had warned her that he wasn't the most easiest person to get along with but that didn't stop Y/n, she didn't see Leon as the government agent or the weapon that most people seemed too, but just a man that had the worse timing most of the time but once he started to open up he was a complete sweetheart.

When they had gotten married Y/n and Leon had gotten married in 2006 she thought everything would be perfect, they would have a house maybe out of town, maybe a fixer upper they could do together as a couple project, like an old historical cottage that has a nice front yard where she could plant flowers, maybe have a dog or a cat.

Leon would have left the government and got a less dangerous job after he found out she was pregnant, everything was meant to fall into place, but sometimes promises are broken even by the people we love the most, this had lead Y/n to start wondering was Leon still the man she had fallen in love with and married all those years ago, or was that man gone and replaced with an drunk, anger hollow shell of his former self.

Shaking her head Y/n turned off her bedside table lamp and layed back in bed, all this thinking was hurting her brain so she decided to try and get some sleep, even if she had to force herself too.

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Later on in the night the small city apartment was quiet, the only sound was a ticking clock and the soft hum of the fridge, but upstairs their was a soft buzzing sound and muffled soft mews filtering from under the door. Y/n had her eyes closed as she worked the toy on it's medium setting, after forcing herself to sleep only to end up tossing and turning, she knew the perfect thing to put her to sleep.

It was the ultimate relaxer or so she thought, her bottom lip was between her teeth as her middle finger and ring finger where working her clit, her other hand was working the toy inside her quivering walls. She couldn't remember the last time she had to use her toy to get off, usually her fingers would work just fine but she knew her body was craving something or somebody else.

In her mind was replying the last time Leon had touched her, when her hands where gripping his pillow as her hand was buried in it, his hand was in her hair, tugging firmly but not to roughly as he thrusted into her from behind, he had come home from a stressful work day and needed to let off some steam and who was she to say no to her husband, with Leon's stamina they would at least go for 2 maybe 3 rounds.

But she was soon pulled out of her fantasy when she heard footsteps, she slowly turned off the toy before hearing a soft knock on the door. "Come in." Y/n spoke softly soon the door opened and Leon sheepishly walked in only wearing his briefs and no short, he looked more sober but their was still bags under his eyes. "Did I wake you?" Y/n asked causing Leon to shake his head as he closed the door behind himself.

"I'm so sorry sweetheart." Leon spoke as he started walking towards their old shared bed, Y/ was at a lost for words this was the first time he apologized for anything in the past few weeks, so she was a little surprised but before she could get any words out, Leon slowly lowered himself to his kneeled in front of her, his head down as if he couldn't make eye contact with her.

"I'm so sorry for being a shitty husband, I know I should have come to you, I just didn't want to burden you with my problems, I wanted to protect you from them, but instead I did the exact opposite." Leon says before he shakes his head before finally he looks up at her. "I know I don't deserve you Y/n or your forgiveness, but I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you." Leon says causing her heart to skip a beat.

"You really hurt me." Y/n started and Leon put his head down like a puppy that was in trouble, "I know princess." Leon says shamefully. "But I am willing to forgive you if you promise this behavior stops now okay, I want you to go to counseling and get help." Y/n says and Leon listens and nods his head. "I'll start looking in the morning." Leon says causing Y/n to smile ever so slightly and nod her head, maybe this wasn't the end of their marriage.

"Good." Y/n said and just as she was about to move over in the bed, Leon reached out to grab her wrist to stop her, but as he did she knew he felt her hand was wet, she saw his eyes widen slightly before he started to bring her hand to his lips. "Leo-." she tried to protest but soon his lips where around her fingers.

the warm and soft feeling of Leon's mouth on her fingers caused her to gasps softly, their was something so erotic about a man on his knees lapping and sucking his wife's juice's off her fingers, especially a man that hasn't tasted her in months. she watched Leon her thighs clenching together as his tongue gently gliding between her fingers.

But soon Leon let her finger's go with a soft pop, a string of his saliva was between her now drool covered fingers and his lips, he looked up at her she could see the desperation and the lust in his eyes, because her were probley mirroring the same look ad if she was honest she was too pent up to let this moment slip through her fingers.

"Can I have more." Leon asked his voice was more husky but still had a slightly desperateness to it. "Will you be a good boy?" Y/n asked with a small tease in her voice but Leon nodded his head quickly, instead of getting up onto the bed so he could be comfortable, Leon was still kneeling on the ground but moved her so she was sideways on the bed but her ass was on the edge of the bed.

Leon started peppering kisses down her ankle, to her legs and then to her thighs, her body was starting to warm up, her thighs clenching with every soft press of his lips, she was nearly about to put him in a headlock between her thighs. When he finally got the edge of her panties that she knew where soaked, she let out a little mew as she could feel his warm breath against her.

"Please can I taste you now sweetheart." Leon softly pleaded as he looked up at her, she knew he was pulling the puppy dog eyes but even with the bags under his blue eyes and the stubble on his face that she knew would be scratching against her inner thigh. Y/n nodded her head again biting her lips.

She could see a small smile come onto Leon's face, as his index finger hooked into the side of her panties, he then lent in and placed a gentle kiss on her aching clit and quivering folds causing a soft moan to leave her lips and her fingers to go into his dark hair. She heard Leon groan softly as he started to lick and suckle as if he was savoring every moment of this.

His name falling off her lips in sweet moans and mews, the sound filled the bedroom as she gently gripped his hair, this was what she had missed the most between their fighting, she missed the intimacy between them, the love, affection, desire, want and need for each other what they can only get for each other, it almost made tears spring to her eyes.

Looking down Y/n saw Leon's face was buried between her holds, his eyes closed as he feasted on her like a starved man, she knew she wasn't going to last long as she already felt the familiar knot forming in her stomach. "It's okay, darling you can come for me." Leon grunted against her flesh, his stubble starching against her inner thighs.

With Leon's permission she came on his tongue with a high pithed cry of his name, her back slightly arching off the bed as her thighs trembled around his head, Leon helped her ride out her orgasm before he pulled away after placing a gentle and loving kiss on her folds, his face was coated in her slick but their was a small blush on his cheeks and the tips of his ears, there was a slightly glazed over look in his eyes.

But when she looked down, saw that Leon's cock was straining through his brief's he shook his head before slowly standing up. "Tonight was about you, I'll do deal with this." Leon spoke causing her to pout slightly but she nodded his head, he gave her a soft kiss on the forehead before he headed to the bathroom that was connected to their bedroom.

Maybe this was the start of the new beginning, maybe their was hope for their relationship, Y/n could only hope and pray but this was a good start and it could only get better for here....

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©Ghosty-writes-23, 2025. all rights reserved. !I DO NOT! consent to translations or replications or reproduction of my work on any other social media platforms and or make AI Bots without my explict consent and permission.

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thewickwheat · 5 months ago

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I'm going to a post full details under the cut, but a short run down:

I've sort of vaguely mentioned this here and there but this year I'm forcing myself to go on a long hiatus. Its been something in the plans for years now, but I can't put it off any longer because 2024 was the worst wrist pain I've dealt with and I don't want to risk permanently damaging myself if I haven't already.

If you're waiting on a comm, don't worry! My hiatus won't officially start until I've finished them all up (estimating April-May to finish up everything), so just bare with me!

Character Sheet comms are staying open

If you're able and willing to support me during this break, please check out my shops or my Patreon!

Ko-Fi - Physical/Digital Merch + Donations

INPRNT - Physical Prints

Patreon - Process Videos and WiPs

Full details and extra info under the cut

So this has been a long time coming but this year I’ll be taking a long hiatus. This is something I’ve wanted to do for years but I can’t put it off any longer due to how bad my wrist pain was in 2024. I’m feeling incredibly burnt out as well and my turn around times growing longer and longer is a very clear sign of it. It also means I’ve had a growing anxiety that if I continue at this pace I will end up doing permanent damage to my body, if I haven’t already. Creating art is the one thing I know I want to do for the rest of my life, be that drawing for myself or helping other people see their visions come to life, and I don’t want to put that at risk.

So I can’t put my hiatus off any longer and I’m making this year the start. If you are still waiting on a commission from me, don’t worry! I am going to keep working on them and my official hiatus time won’t start until everything has been finished up. I’m estimating April to May to get everything cleared off the table since I’m going to work at a steady pace. Character sheet commissions are going to remain open, they are not in high demand and I can put them in a queue and so should anyone have interest in one during my hiatus, it could be something I pick up when I need the extra cash. However all other types of commissions are going to be unavailable for the foreseeable future.

I am aiming for a 6 month long hiatus at the least. If I can go longer I will aim for a full year break. Freelance and commission work has been my main source of income for over 10 years now, so during this time I may also look into getting a part time job so I don't have to rely so heavily on art, which will also affect how much I’ll be able to take on in the future. I’m not quitting art during this hiatus, I do want to keep drawing and creating! But I will be working at a slower pace, creating for myself, experimenting and trying other projects. I also have more merch ideas on the list to work on! I’ve got some plush designs I want to have made,namely a new Zenos plush that will have doll fiber hair that can be brushed and styled.

I will also design more tag style keychains with more XIV characters (like the Scions and other major NPCs), since people have really liked those a lot! I’ll also plan out some other ideas and maybe design some original design plushies or other merch. We’ll see!

If anyone enjoys my work and wants to help support me during my hiatus, please check out my available merch. I have prints on INPRNT, and a variety of items on Ko-Fi (limited prints, artbooks both physical and digital, keychains, stickers, etc.), I also have a patreon where I post process videos of illustrations. You can also drop donations of my Ko-Fi. I will be adding a goal that I’ll set at a high amount I don't expect to reach, just because I personally want a visual of donations or purchases during my break. Even small donations would mean a lot. If only 10% of my followers on twitter or tumblr bought a single Ko-Fi donation, it would be a substantial amount of money. I say this not to guilt folks into donating, but to point out small donations can still have a lot of power. And so I appreciate any support at all!

Thank you so much if you read this entire message. It means a lot to me and I hope a good long break means when I’m able to get back to commission and freelance I’ll approach them with much more vigor and skill!

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this-is-tiny-mia · 3 months ago

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Tiny Mia Masterlist

Hello my loves! this is where you'll find everything! Requests are currently open! feel free to drop them in my dms or inbox. Smut: * | Fluff: ! | Angst: •

One Shots

Sorry Wrong Number ! / Word Count: 12.4k | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 A wrong-number text leads to an unexpected connection between a you and a stranger. What starts as a playful exchange quickly becomes the highlight of their days, leaving you curious about the man behind the messages.

🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷

Table 11 * • / Word Count: 8k An encounter at a restaurant brings together Y/N, a hardworking waitress with little time for love, and Harry, a successful yet guarded man who fears opening up.

🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷

Smudged Nail Polish * / Word Count: 3k Late nights at the office often meant brainstorming sessions and a ton of work undone. But one evening, the line between work and pleasure begins to blur.

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Window in Front * / Word Count: 3.9k After discovering your husband’s affair, you take a job with his biggest rival to get even. What starts as revenge quickly becomes something far sweeter—and far more pleasing.

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Of Spilled Drinks and Spilled Truths * • / Word Count: 9.2k A weekend getaway with friends was supposed to be a break, but for Y/N and Harry, it becomes a turning point. After years of friendship riddled with unresolved feelings, some heated arguments gives way to confessions neither of them expected.

Short Fics

(ON GOING) Reply All ! * • / Chapter 1 • | Chapter 2 • | Chapter 3 • | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 ! | Chapter 6 ! Y/N and Harry were childhood best friends, inseparable through every laugh, secret, and growing pain. But high school brought unspoken feelings and decisions that tore them apart, leaving both with unanswered questions. Years later, a class project challenges them to face their shared past and uncover the truths they’ve both been running from. And a wrong click unveils the past and what will be the future.

Long Fics

Blurbs (Works under 3k + Fics Blurbs)

White Frosting ! / Word Count: 1.6k A fluffy look into Y/N and Harry’s life as soon-to-be parents of two — snow, cravings, bedtime cuddles, and their curious 5-year-old keeping things interesting.

Styles: The documentary ! / Word Count: 1.9k A documentary is being filmed about Harry’s life, and as his fiancée, you’re interviewed to share your perspective. Reflecting on how you met, your first date, and the special moments that brought you closer, you open up about your relationship and the journey you’ve taken together.

If you want to be added to any tag list please dm me! 🌷

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x reader #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles one shot #harry edward styles #harry styles x y/n #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles smut fanfic #harry styles x you #harry styles fanfic rec #harry styles au #ceorry

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skzthelomlhehe · 5 months ago

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Telling Changbin you want a baby~

And guess who's back agaaaaaiiiinnnnn!! Yup that's meeeeeee hahahahaha I just got heartbroken 😃 so I write smut!!! Why cry over men when I can dream about skz amirite? So hiya! Back to this lmaooo

Author from future: I'm still heartbroken while I finished this. And I'm still day dreaming about getting headlocked by changbin. (Live, laugh, love changbin 💪)

Warning: mentions of pregnancy, p in v, unprotective sex, Oral (f receiving), mentions of bruising {apologies if I missed anything.}

Changbin x F!reader // established relationships // MDNI

Masterlist Total masterlist Tag Reqs:@bluesungology @diabolicalkitkat @capricorn-girl0112 @daysofskz-ateez @neginktn

This is gonna be such a drabble omg

Smut under cut // Minors Do Not Interact

Changbin has been out for a few weeks now. Back to back business trips, work projects, a few side hustles. He wanted nothing more than to see the love of his life after all this hassle. He came back home, his phone brightened up. A picture of you and him proudly shining on his lock screen. The time was 11:07 pm.

He gently unlocked the door wanting to surprise you. Upon reaching further into the house, his face melted in an adoring smile. His heart swelling at the sight of you laying on the couch sleeping peacefully. Your chest heaving up and down in slow rhythms.

He placed his bag down as slowly as he could. His face practically the pleading emoji. He crouched down, tugging a few strands of your hair behind your ear before placing a soft peck on your forehead.

"Mm..." You groaned, awakening from your slumber. Your eyes fell on the beautiful man beside you and your face lit up immediately. "Hey binnie..." you giggled, seeing his peculiar expression. "Hello, bun. Did I wake you up?" He whispered. You shook your head, still smiling like a child. "Not at all! I do hope our baby didn't wake u-" you looked down to your belly, panic setting in.

"wa-wait! Where's my baby??" You jolted up, changbin looking at you with utter confusion. You held on to changbin, panic and desperation painting all your face. "B-binnie where.... Where's our baby???" You cried out. Tears started streaming down your face.

Changbin held on to your face, cupping your cheeks gently. "Babe! Calm down!" Concerned, he pulled you in to a tight hug, "calm down, love. What baby are you even talking about?" Having being pulled into that embrace, you finally calmed down. Reality settling in. It was all just a dream.

You let go, looking into his eyes still sniffling, "I... I had a dream where... We... We had a baby... So I was scared I lost my little one... Sorry if I scared you, binnie..." You looked down. Cheeks flushed red. You were so embarrassed.

Don't know how you expected him to react, but what you didn't expect was that Changbin would be cackling at your actions. He pulled you in to a hug again, placing soft kisses all over your face. "Honeeyyy~ you're so adorable!!" He squealed. You buried your face in his firm chest, groaning, "no I'm not." You mumbled. You peeked up from his chest, your eyes sparkling, "Can... Can you make a baby with me?" your lips puckered up in a pout, eyes pleading like a child asking for candy. Changbin chuckled, gently kissing your lips.

"If my lovely wife wants it, who am I to say no?" He picked you up, making you wrap your legs around him as he carried you to your bedroom. (Again, I have a strange obsession with carrying to the bed and I will NEVER stop writing about it.) He let you down softly, placing gentle loving kisses on your neck. You tilted your head to let him get more skin to kiss. He looked up at you, taking your hands in his and kissing the knuckles of your hand. "You're sure about this, right?" He asked, his eyes sparkling with a loving gaze.

You lifted your head to kiss his forehead, a pretty smile curling your lips, "of course, love. It's your child that'll be inside me... That's such a wonderful thing!" You giggled. He gave you another soft peck on your lips before getting up and throwing his shirt off.

You shuddered at the view, your left hand running down his well built torso. "Love the view, don't you?" He placed his hand on yours. "I'd be crazy not to... There's no way I'll never worship you." "Same goes for me." He bent down, kissing your collar bone, sliding his hand under your velvety pajama shirt.

you whimpered under his touch, your fingers threading in his hair as he unbuttoned your shirt, not leaving a single inch of your skin unkissed. Your skin burned wherever his lips met, heart thumped. It suddenly felt like this was your first time having sex even though you've had it countless times.

The very thought of being able to carry his baby made you even more eager. You flinched as you felt him kiss your lower abdome while pulling your pants down. "B-binniiee..." You whined. "Yes, honey?" His voice was deep and heavy, his lips busy kissing your thighs. Your core was now for show to him.

You mewled at him licking your clit, your desperate pussy throbbing for more. He chuckled, his voice rolling in that perfect wave. You could feel your ears burning. (Me rn) He gave you a couple more licks, teasing you knowing damn well how on edge you get because of it. "Binnie..!" You whined again, a bit louder this time. "Hehe sorry babyyy~" he laughed.

He let himself delve deep into your cunt. Licking, biting and absolutely devouring you. You let out a breathy moan as he covered the entirety of your folds with his mouth. It was warm already but now you felt like it was gonna melt.

He didn't even need to use his fingers. All he needed was his mouth. Penetrating your hole with his tongue and sucking you up. You could tell he was pussy drunk by the sloppy licks and bites. You pushed his head in knowing how much he likes it when you do that. He let out a pretty highpitched whine. (sorta like the last clip here lol just watch the video, get a good laugh, come back and get horny again lmao) it was a sign he liked it.

You found your climax nearing. You tried closing your legs around him only to be forced open by those sexy arms (i shit you not I started day dreaming) you couldn't hold it in. The stimulation was too much. He was way too good.

Before you knew it, you let loose all over him. Your body stiffening as you came and soon relaxed into a putty. Your chest heaved up and down as you struggled to catch your breath.

He got up, your essence dripping down his chin. Wiping himself clean, he used the remaining wetness as a lubricant. Slipping down his pants, his cock sprung out. He rubbed his length as he leaned down to kiss you. Tasting yourself on your tongue was something you considered would be disgusting before but after you got a taste of changbin? You would drink poison from this man's hands. He slowly rubbed the tip of his member on your entrace, looking at you with curious eyes one last time.

You nodded softly before pulling him into a kiss again. That was the approval he needed. Without another second wasted, he dived in. The stretch of your hole delicious. You moaned out, your nails digging into his back making him groan. "So tight... So pretty... Just for me..." He whispered in your ear, peppering you with soft kisses as he moved.

You wrapped your legs around him, eyes shut, back arched, head thrown back from the sensation. He bit your collarbone, then your breast, down to your tummy, leaving beautiful bite marks and hickeys.

He looked up at you, awe and love overflowing from his gaze. "You're so beautiful, bunny." He mumbled, making you blush harder. "St-stop.." you protested. Barely having the strength to form words further than that.

He chuckled at the sight, loving every moan, every touch, every protest and struggle. And he knew you loved it too. He got up, holding your hips and pulling you close, making you squeak. You could've sworn the way he held you would bruise you. And yet, amidst all that, there was tenderness. There was love. You didn't care if you had marks or bruises. You knew, in the end of the day, he loved you. And he would never hurt you.

You felt yourself coming close again. And the way changbin had his eyes shut and the way he groaned, it was clear he was too. Your hands that were clenching on the sheets now made their way to your lover. "B-binnie... M'gonna... Gonna cum..." You mustered up the strength to warn him.

"just a little longer, bunny. Im close too..." He groaned. A few more thrusts in, he was close. So very close. And so were you. "Go ahead, bun. Cum with me. Let's let loose together, yeah?" He huffed, leaning down again, pulling you into an embrace as both of you came undone. He painted your walls white while you held onto him tightly.

He fell limp on you, his weight ever so comforting. Both of you panting from the stimulation. He flopped down on the bed next to you. His member still inside making sure to seal his cum inside you.

You melted in his comfortable arms as he spooned you, snuggling closer to him. His arms were wrapped around your belly. You rubbed the back of his hand, a soft smile curving your lips. "Do you think I'll be a good mother?" You asked softly. "The best mom to ever exist." He nuzzled into your neck. "I hope I can be as good of a mom as yours." You chuckled. "And I'll make sure our little one will love you just as much as I love my mom if not more."

Both of you shared a laugh before finding solace in each other's embrace. Soon drifting off to sleep before you could realise.

{Fin}

Im writing this during my hiatus cuz I've been stressed out and needed some comforting smut Lolol hope you guys liked it! (Back to hiatus I go!)

Note: to get tagged, interact with this post.

#stray kids #skz #skz imagines #skz hard thoughts #skz smut #stray kids smut #changbin skz #changbin x y/n #changbin smut #changbin stray kids #seo changbin #changbin

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rafescherie · 4 months ago

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SALT IN THE SUGAR BOWL — RAFE CAMERON

pogue!rafe decides to end things before either of you get too attached — but it's already passed that point, for the both of you.

salt in the sugar bowl miniseries | you are currently on part one — part two - part three |

cherie's note — heavily inspired by letthespiceflow on c.ai c: been using that bot a bit, and wanted to write a fic based off of the intro of the bot! press here for the link to the bot!

rafe had never been one for the kook life — fancy boats, and stupid polo shirt outfits. more than one hundred spent on an outfit and it became one for 'special occasions', otherwise it would be covered in the filth of the garage floor, and deep obsidian motor oil. his hands were already stained, not something unusual for his line of work. despite his resentment for the kook life, and everyone on the other side of the island, they paid him a hell of a lot of money for the work he did — and he did it well. it had only been a few years since he had opened his own mechanic garage, months worth of projects to work on since the very first day. he was always kept busy — whether it was with upgrading a vehicle, or fixing somebody else's, he always had his hands full.

that's how he met you. so generously, he had offered to tow your vehicle back to the shop upon discovering it moiling the smoke from under it's hood — like your guardian angel sent from heaven, it was the least he could do for a pretty girl. his mother had taught him better, always trying to be a gentleman where he could be.

until today. this morning was different — the air hung thick with the aftermath of the hurricane in his brain from the night prior. he knew he needed to act on his thoughts, and do what was best. but he absolutely dreaded seeing the look on your face, and watching it completely shatter your heart.

"need the wrench, angel." he requested from beneath the heavy vehicle, grease smothered hand appearing from below to extend an open palm. bounding almost excitedly off of his leather-worn workbench, you placed the cold steel tool in his hand.

"so uh, listen," a grunt escaping his lips, absentmindedly going back to working on the vehicle. his muscles tensed with every torque of the wrench, biceps shining with a mixture of grease and sweat. the unmistakable sound of heavy bolts hitting the cold cement of the locally-owned garage rang through the bay, the hum of rock music playing throughout the shop.

his heart thundered against his chest — he felt like such a dickhead. it had only been a few months since the both of you had started seeing one another, and he was already planning on ending things. it wasn't something he wanted to do: it was something he needed to do. he hated knowing he was the reason you held yourself back from the possibility of college. no matter how much he had stressed to you that your schooling was important, especially given the opportunity of growing up on figure eight, it never seemed to stick with you. all you wanted was to be around him, and as much as he adored having you tag along every day, he didn't want to be the reason you would ruin your future.

"been thinking... maybe we should, cool things off, a bit."

the words stuck in your head for a minute, heart racing over the sentence. had you heard him right? there was certainly the possibility you had misunderstood. "what is that supposed to mean?"

rafe sighs, audible even from beneath the heavy vehicle he had been working on the last few months. the last thing he wanted to do was look at you, speak directly to you — the hurt in your eyes would eat him alive like no other, as if the guilt wasn't already working towards that alone.

"you know.." he starts, voice tame despite the race of his emotions, "you an' me."

you furrow your eyebrows, confused on the sudden shift. he had been so sweet just yesterday — peppering you with so much love you were sure you would have fainted on the spot. but maybe that was his attempt at sweethearting you — trying to help soothe the mental turmoil he was experiencing for ending things so suddenly with you. "what, why?"

he shakes his head, wishing you'd just drop it. but an explanation was what you deserved, after all. it was the least he could do. he drops the wrench onto the cement beneath the car, sliding out from underneath to kneel in front of you. he runs his tainted hand over his buzzed hair, another deep sigh falling from his nostrils.

"you're a smart girl, sweetheart. think about it — you're a kook, and i'm a pogue. you come from the rich side of the island, and i come from the cut. it wouldn't work," he starts, wanting nothing more than to wrap his arms around your fragile body, reassuring you it wasn't your fault, "besides, last thing you need in your life is someone who dropped out of high school, 'specially since you're headed to college in the fall."

ouch.

"rafe..." you trail on, biting the inside of your cheek in any sort of control against the tears that threatened to spill onto your flushed cheeks. "i- i thought you didn't care for all that?"

"i don't," he replies, ocean blue eyes looking around the shop in a desperate attempt to avoid eye contact.

"so where is this coming from?" you ask, heart thundering against your ribcage. desperation was laced within your voice, soft and trembling at the realization of the news you were being hit with.

he let out a sigh, hesitating before he opened his mouth to speak. there was no easy way to say this, so he opted for brutal honesty. his eyes never left yours as he said the words he dreaded most.

“it’s dangerous,” he started, his voice low as he slowly stood up in front of you. “it’s just asking for trouble. people would have my head. not to mention what your parents would say. we just…we can’t do this anymore.”

none of this was fair — neither to you, or to him. but there was no turning back now, the words had already popped out of his mouth, and the inevitable damage was already done. the look on your face was like a gut punch to his stomach, making him feel dizzy and sick all at the same time. he hated himself — really, he did.

one thing you knew for sure about rafe — he either didn’t care at all, or he cared too much. he always told you it didn’t matter what your parents thought or how anyone else would react; he promised he’d always take care of you. but as reality crashed down on you like a ton of bricks, that promise felt like a slap in the face. you hadn’t even realized you were crying until the hot tears streaked down your flushed cheeks, landing on the bare skin of your shoulders, exposed by your tank top.

"it's for the best, baby."

the oil on his hands smudges onto the cotton fabric of his wrinkled, disheveled shirt before he lifts them to cup your face in his palms. his blue eyes search yours, the sting of salty tears making it harder to hold his gaze. but you don’t let him linger — you swat his hands away and turn for the exit, your footsteps heavy against the garage floor.

you stupidly wish to hear his footsteps trailing behind you as you walk back to your parked car — but they never come. how foolish, how naive, to think he would follow. even after he fell in love with you. even after he let you fall in love with him.

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sweetflanfiction · 7 months ago

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Asymetrical Symphony - Part 6

Universe: Arcane (LOL)

Pairing: Viktor x reader

Summary: You had been on the rooftop with Jayce and the Herald and somehow you were sent to a place where things can be different with your help

Disclaimers and Warnings: If you want me to tag you on the chapters let me know! Also leave a comment with your thoughts :D Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about LOL is from google and all I know about Arcane is taken from the show, so inacuracies will be plenty. I have a sort of idea on how to I'm gonna go with magic and runes, so bear with me. The reader will be written as GN (going by they/them) to get everyone involved, but if you see any discrepancies let me know.

A.N.: Thank you guys for commenting and faving the story. I'm always happy to read all you guys tell me! I'm going to try and reply back. Anywho, let the rollercoaster begin.

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5

• ··········· • ············ •

The following week, you restarted the journey to becoming a member of Piltover's society under Esther’s wing.

The official story was: Your real mother was your aunt, and you had come back to Piltover after your fictional mother died, and because your real mother's maternal instincts were so fine-tuned, your real mother didn't mind that you or anyone else, for that matter, called you her child, and her your mother. Complicated? Yep. It would feed the gossip circles for years, and honestly, you both thrived on the drama.

Clothes were brought, space was made, introductions were done, and the process of making you an official Rainemour in the world was set in motion.

It felt like home, back to your old Topsider self, with the added extra of waking up, kicking and screaming with the feeling of fingertips on your forehead.

It had been a flurry of new faces, new places, and new customs. You met the house staff, Jaime and Oly, and the cook, Voltaire. While the two keepers lived on the lower floors, Voltaire lived somewhere other than the Cinquefoil building. He had been your mother’s friend for a few years and was the chef at several topside restaurants.

You still hadn't met the elusive Wyllah, but you had found out who she was. She was an art merchant, away on business, but most important, she was your mother’s significant other. Your mother had told you one night, almost in fear, she had found love after your father’s passing. You had blinked and shrugged. Nobody deserved to go through life alone.

Your mother’s life has been quite interesting on this side of the dimension rift. She was a writer, penning a series of fantasy books that magic lovers drank like water. She also found herself advocating for better education in Piltover. All of Piltover, especially the undercity. Esther tried to help those who wanted a chance to change their future.

It was only a matter of time until fate brought her and a certain engineer who also had a like-minded vision together. After that meeting, Esther became a patron of the Talis Lab and the Academy, helping with funding for any projects regarding the betterment of the city.

And that was the reason why you were now making your way towards a familiar lab in the Academy. A commission for her needed approval and had been delayed long enough with the rocket attack and you appearing out of thin air. Or, according to the gossip, like an illegitimate child.

“You didn’t need to come along.” She mumbled while pushing the elevator button.

“I wanted to come.” You smiled confidently at her. You wanted everyone to see you and become accustomed to you. It would be beneficial if you wanted to get into the business of saving the world.

“To check on your friends?”

You nodded. Before the Herald and the HexAngels, between Jayce becoming a councilor and the hextech showing its true colors, most of your time was divided between the music conservatory, the orchestra, Talis' labs, and home. And from all of those, home was the one you went to less and less with time. Therefore, when allowed to have even a single second of normalcy in a familiar place, you seized it.

When the elevator dinged, you walked inside with a conviction that was only masking a feeling of nervousness. Yes, you knew this place and the face on the other side of the lab door, but they didn't. You were just a stranger.

“Has it changed much?” Your mother whispered, and you grinned at her.

“Nah, a few artworks and garbage cans. Some names on the doors, but nothing else.”

“Really? Fascinating.” Her face was deep in thought.

“Stop.” You chuckled, knowing that look. She was taking mental notes. “It’s not that interesting.”

The elevator pinged and opened again. Instinctively you walked out first, knowing exactly where to go, your mother keeping up with you, scoffing.

“Well, excuse me if I find it amazing that my child jumped through time and space to save the world.”

“I didn’t save the world.” You rolled your eyes at her.

“Viktor is still alive, isn’t he?” She noted, raising her eyebrows.

As soon as she finished that sentence, a small thump of a dry explosion was heard inside the hextech lab. Like an empty milk carton was squished with a stomp.

“I’m sure he’s fine.” She added.

Another small firecracker-like explosion was heard, prompting you both to look at each other and break into a jog to reach the lab.

As expected, the door was locked, and although you had told your mom about a lot, the magic part was still something that needed some explanation. So you resorted to the least efficient way to open a closed door: banging on it.

“Viktor! Jayce?” Esther shouted. A few groans from behind the door warned you there was someone alive inside. Well, capable of moaning in pain was more accurate.

“Get the enforcers.” You mumbled to your mother; she nodded and raced around the corner.

As soon as she was out of sight, you pulled your glove off and magically unlocked the door, punching the rune you painted near the lock. The door immediately opened with the force of your hit but didn’t swing open as expected. It hit something and bounced back, slamming shut again while someone grunted in pain on the other side.

It’s funny how you could know someone from their tiniest squeak. And you knew that groan. You'd know it had it come from the other side of Piltover. Hells, you'd know it if it had been heard through the actual space and time rift.

Carefully this time you twisted the door handle, opening the door gently and peeking inside the lab.

Although the curtains were open, a dusty, thick white fog lingered in the air, making the room a shade darker. The floor was littered with tools, gears, and pencils that had fallen from their places, and a pair of goggles was lying on the floor next to a welding machine.

Viktor was sprawled on the ground, leaning back into one of his hands while the other was gently massaging his face. One of his legs was twisted uncomfortably, and the other was bent at the knee in front of him. You could see as he rubbed his face that there was blood coming from somewhere. After a while, he shook his head and looked up at the door.

When he managed to focus his gaze on you, his eyebrows knotted in confusion and then realization. With a sigh, he sat, grabbed the leg that was twisted uncomfortably, and brought it forward. You heard a metallic thud. Hextech leg. Your gaze shifted to his face; you saw the blood coming from his nose, but it didn’t seem broken. Above his eyebrow was a small curved gash, a courtesy of the goggles he probably ripped off his head.

“We do need to stop meeting like this.” he mumbled, trying to get up with the grace of a baby deer using its long limbs for the first time.

Putting your glove back on, you took a step closer and offered him a hand, which he accepted with raised eyebrows and a head tilt.

With more expertise than he was expecting, you grabbed his hand and forearm and pulled him up. Picking this man off the floor had become a skill both you and Jayce obtained a long time ago. His disability unfortunately made him an easy target for misfires. While you and Jayce would easily dodge anything coming your way, Viktor wouldn’t. Couldn’t. And since the fastest way to move him fast was pushing him out of the way, the three of you would end up on the floor, and either you or Jayce would shield Viktor from whatever was malfunctioning at the time. It wasn't your proudest idea, but it worked, and for better or worse, you all would escape relatively unscathed.

“Like what?” You asked, joining him in dusting off his clothes.

You patted his back gently, feeling the brace on his spine under his clothes. You didn't find it.

“After an explosion.” He swished the dust off his coat sleeves. The off-white coat was a tinge darker after the mishap.

“Technically, this is the first time we meet after an explosion.” You emphasized the word ‘after’ and he stopped mid-swipe, turning his face back towards you.

Shrugging, you lifted the corners of your mouth, giving him a grin that he responded to with a chuckle. You looked around the mess that was the lab at this moment and spotted his white cane and his wheeled bench.

You grabbed the cane first and gently pushed the stool so it would roll down next to him. He plopped down with a groan, using the table as leverage. You handed him the cane, and he nodded. You smile at his messy figure.

“Thank you.” He said, placing the cane between his knees and leaning into it with a heavy sigh.

“Do you need anything else?” You asked softly, stopping the urge to kneel next to him and take stock of his injuries.

“There is a first-aid kit somewhere on Jayce's desk. It’s on the...”

Before he finished the sentence, you jiggled the white box next to him, having already grabbed it when he mentioned it.

“How did…?” He asked, looking at you questioningly, and panic set in for a second.

“Oh, my dear boy!” Your mother burst in, followed by several Enforcers, and you sighed in relief.

“Is everything alright?” One of the Enforcers said, and you took a step back, leaning against the table behind where Viktor sat.

“Yes…” Viktor stated while your mother fussed over him.

One of the enforcers looked at you, and you recognized his eyes. He had been one of the men you had pushed out of your way at the front door of the Academy. You looked at the floor, trying to not provoke the man.

“Funny. You always seem to appear whenever anything goes boom, don't you?” He spat towards you.

“Not funny at all.” You replied, your tone serious, trying once more not to escalate the situation. For your sake and the people you cared about who were now looking between you and the Enforcer.

“Maybe we should call Officer Kiraman. I’m sure she would like to know that once again you’re in the vicinity of an attack.” He snarled, and you scowled at him, about to let him have it.

“You are going to call Officer Kiraman over a malfunctioning piece of equipment?” Viktor interrupted, straightening up with a wince while using his cane to get up from the stool. “Do you think she’ll get here before or after reading all the condolence letters sent to her? Or perhaps she will make time on Remembrance Day, right before the speech honoring her deceased mother."

A pin could be heard through the silence if a pin would have dropped in the lab. The main enforcer was looking at him, mouth hanging open; you and your mother looked at each other and then at a very collected, very serious Viktor. He seemed taller, with his shoulders straight, and you knew that after that tumble he was going to hurt for at least a week, but that didn't stop him from stepping up to the Enforcers. You had forgotten how much sass that man could pack in a single line.

“When is it going to be, officer?” The engineer shrugged, limping back towards a pile of sheets that had flown back. “I need to tidy up before she gets here.”

It took the group of Enforcers three seconds to clear out after that, and a collective sigh was heard from the three of you.

“You’d think being knocked around would make their synapses work faster.” Viktor waved a hand at them, still picking up papers, stopping midway to look at you, like he had just realized you were there. “Not that I agree with knocking around enforcers…or that you knocked around enforcers… I’m just saying…”

He was flustered, talking with his free hand while his eyes looked around the room. You chuckled, and he stopped when he heard you.

“You’re just saying…?” You teased, rolling your hand for him to keep going.

“Nothing of importance, I suppose.” He turned back to the table.

“I was hoping you could show me the reader.” Esther announced, grabbing a few nuts and bolts and placing them next to Viktor. “But I imagine it's not functioning.”

Viktor turned to her, realizing finally why you were both there. He smiled sheepishly and scratched the back of his neck.

“Well, yes and no.” He said, tilting his head from side to side. “The explosion wasn’t it, but it was a component that I was trying to recreate to use in another experiment.”

“And now both are fried.” You answered by crossing your arms.

“Well…yes. But if you give me a few hours, I can make it work, at least for the reader. The other thing will wait, I guess…” he said quickly. “Better yet, give me a few minutes so I can get it, and I can at least show you what I have for now.”

“It's quite alright, dear. Take your time. We can just come back another time.” Esther said, and part of you felt disappointed.

Your second home was right here.

“That would hardly be fair. You’ve made it here. Give me a few minutes, an hour tops.” He was limping around waving his hand and cane.

“I suppose I do need to speak with Councilor Salo.” Your mother shrugged nonchalantly. “Do you want to—”

“No.” You cut her off. “Not really. You go ahead. I’ll get reacquainted with the Academy.”

“Reacquainted?” Viktor inquired, looking towards you.

“Last time I was here, I didn’t exactly take the scenic route.” You covered your mistake with an easy joke, and he chuckled at it.

• ············ •

You managed to walk around the Academy undisturbed. It was weird to walk around the familiar corridors, passing by people you knew and fighting the urge to say hello and strike up a conversation. It was awfully lonely, seeing everyone going about their lives, never knowing about you.

Although it saddened you, you understood that it wasn’t because you weren’t needed in their lives but because fate found a way to replace you. Maybe you hadn’t saved Sky from falling down the stairs in this universe, because maybe her classroom was on the same floor she was at.

As you wandered, you found yourself in a corridor with very recognizable double doors. The Council Chamber was guarded by several guards, and you felt the morbid curiosity to see if the room was the same as it was in your time.

As you searched your brain for a way to bypass the guards, a familiar whispering in your ear. The rune from the elevator flashed behind your eyes. The one you hadn’t managed to make work. You took your gloves off again and drew the symbol in a railing, disguising it as an absent movement as you looked down to the courtyard. You let it go, and nothing happened for a couple of seconds.

And then the groaning of metal grinding against another surface filled your ears. Your eyes turned upwards as you saw the metal spike that held the Academy’s banner to the stone ceiling give way and slip. The heavy banner made a swoosh noise as it fell, and your eyes widened.

You saw the Enforcers run towards the elevator and the stairs. You turned your back to them and waited until their hurried footsteps had softened.

Quickly you made your way to the chamber through the door you had burst open. A new door had been placed and locked, but you unlocked it with three swipes of your fingers.

The chamber room was as spacious as you remembered, the hole in the dome a grim reminder that those who sat in this room were as vulnerable as everyone else in the city. You remembered Viktor’s diagram, looking around at the empty and cracked chairs. Most of the smaller debris had been cleaned off, leaving only the big and medium chunks. The ones that couldn't just be carried off by crewmen. The sun shone high and bright in the clear sky, illuminating the whole room, the long pieces of the damaged dome casting a shadow on the floor.

You touched parts of the smooth stone that were still intact and walked toward the edge of the room, feeling the wind on your face. It had been an awakening to these people, but not the one that Piltover needed. This whole region forgot how hard it is to break a rope and how easy it is to break a strand. Only in the end did they figure out that the many are more powerful than the few. That blood, once spilt, is equally red whether it is from Zaun or Topside.

Closing your eyes, you stood for a moment, somewhat grieving what had been the beginning of the end.

(Nemo - The Code)

Welcome to the show. Let everybody know I’m done playing the game. I’ll break out of the chains.

Until the wind started whispering in your ear and your eyes shot open. What looked to be blue dust started to float like specks of dust toward the middle of the room, and you followed the flow. There was nothing there. But there could be.

You better buckle up; I'll pour another cup. This is my bohème, so drink it up, my friend.

Your hand moved unconsciously, drawing the rune in the air like it was second nature. You pushed it out with a flick of your hand. Like in the graveyard, it divided itself into several wisps of light and quickly moved toward parts of the broken table and chairs. A familiar rune appeared, but so did many others. Some are more complicated, others just little flicks of light. Shining bright in the middle of the rubble or being illuminated by sunlight.

I went to hell and back. To find myself on track, I broke the code.

You walked towards what had been the middle of the cog-like shape and watched as the wisps danced around. Looking around, you noticed the runes were surrounding you, pulsating like a heartbeat; you noticed your hand doing the same, in rhythm with the wisps. You saw a small piece of rubble that had been missing by the cleaning crew and took a deep breath.

“Here goes nothing.”

Let me tell you a tale about life, 'Bout the good and the bad; better hold on tight.

Starting with the rune in front of you, you carved it on the floor, the piece of rubble in your hand serving as a makeshift chalk. You kept carving the runes on the floor in front of where they appeared in the air. The world around you faded, and your vision became focused.

See the rune, and trace the rune on the floor.

Let me taste the lows and highs; let me feel that burning fright.

It was automatic; you didn’t think or even study the rune. At some point, you felt like it was the rune commanding you to write, rather than your desire to write them. And even though it was akin to someone using your arm and hand to do this, it never felt like you couldn’t stop.

It was almost cathartic.

Somewhere between the O's and ones, that's where I found my kingdom come.

When you found yourself at the beginning of the circle of runes, you stopped and took a step back. The wisps had disappeared, but you could see a faint light throbbing under the scratched runes.

It looked so unbelievably perfect for something that you had scratched on the floor with a piece of cement. Every space between runes was precise, and the little ticks and dots were perfectly balanced.

With that amount of rigor, it was easy to see something was missing, a single wisp in the spot where the cog table opened. Familiar strokes. Ones you’ve been looking at ever since you woke up in the hospital.

You looked at your palm, the rune there shining so bright it almost burned. Taking a few steps towards the space, you shook your hand in the air and slammed it into the slot.

My heart beats like a drum.

The whole room shook, and for a second you got scared, but when the runes started ungluing themselves off the ground and quickly zapping around different parts of the table, you became too fascinated with the show to care.

If the building fell, you don’t think you’d even notice.

Every piece of wreckage, big or small, started floating above you, aided by strands of magic that pushed and pulled and moved different pieces toward different places. Their rightful places. Once a piece found its match, it was welded together by a flash of blue light, leaving them complete with a trace of metallic blue where the crack had been.

I went to hell and back. To find myself on track, I broke the code.

You noticed the same thing happening in the chairs, and by the end of the magic show, the table and the chairs were floating around you. Slowly drifting and turning into their right position. Until they wafted back down to the floor with an incredible low thud.

It was almost overwhelming once it was all over how the silence settled around you. The runes on the floor disappeared, your hand stopped glowing, and the table was complete, whole, pieced together by little blue veins. The only thing you heard was the birds outside, the wind through the damaged dome, your heavy breathing, and the clunk of a metal cane hitting the floor.

Your neck snapped at the sound, and you saw a wide-eyed Viktor standing in front of the side door you had entered.

“Your… your mother is… She’s looking for you.” He stuttered.

• ··········· • ············ •

@marshy-moo @victormydarling @blueesmiski @th3stup1dcat @22carolina08 @httpstes @that-one-shitty-blog @disa-pointment @sseleniaa @moons-lighttrail @aysluxe @fae-doodle @kitewa @local-mr-frog @bakusquadobsessed @cherry-cola-100 @optimistic-but-very-realistic @seeksrsnn @thecordelialetters @notsaelty

#league of legends #lol #leagueoflegends #arcane #viktor #jayce #viktor arcane #viktor league of legends #viktor lol #viktor x reader #arcane herald #arcane season 2 #arcane act 3 #arcane spoilers #arcane x y/n #arcane viktor #arcane x you #arcane characters #arcane x reader

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nerd-who-likes-cats · 6 months ago

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The Tsum stack is complete at nine! I may return to do more in the future, but for now the tsums must take their portal back home. Much love to everyone who encouraged me with nice comments and reblogs, I'd have done more if real life didn't interrupt me from my desire to draw all day.

I do really wanna come back to this and do more, there's so many creative people in the Fandom and I had so much fun just looking at OCs to draw in the first place, and I have a list already. This project also prompts me to tell y'all, I reccomend having an OC tag or a masterlist of links. The weirdos like me who fall in love with an oc who's not our own, can find more on them through such things, and it ain't a crime to be proud of your own work.

Thanks for enjoying my tsums as much as I did, even if I'm not drawing them ill always love seeing OCs, so never stop being creative ❤️ especially thanks to @terminuslucis @sunnysidesevenup @marigoldendragon @mellosdrawings @r-aindr0p @rakiah @cheekinpermission and @loojii for letting me draw your OCs.

A few bonuses from this under cut!

The page I drew them all on, with the Canon tsums in the background for me to reference.

Yuu Crew

The three Pomefiore students

The Beastfolk

Elias and a hastily drawn mini Rollo

#oc tsums #twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #twisted tsumderland #tsum tsums #tsum tsum #Kat Chyuu #little Silver #Arlo Wake #Bazza #Hayeli #Elias #Akanda and Akedya #Erin #Yina #mini rollo

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whirlybirbs · 1 year ago

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BEYOND THE VOID — !

1. THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

( MASTERPOST | AO3 | SPOTIFY ) summary: torn from time yet again, it's thursday. six months pass. while you grapple with a newfound uncanny ability to premeditate, loki grapples with the fact he's slipping back into his old self without you. enter brad wolfe. now playing: a whole lots gonna change by weyes blood word count: 3.3k pairing: loki / f!reader, established in from the void, with love tags: enemies to friends to lovers, soulmates, we-are-in-love-in-the-future but how did that even happen, angst & comfort, redemption arc, lots of time travel, loki season 2 (2020) spoilers a/n: finally, they return in "beyond the void". i can't thank everyone enough for the unending enthusiasm for this little project of mine. it's fitting to have the first chapter release with an eclipse. this is for all of you :) the beautiful gif for this chapter is from this set by @tomshiddles.

"Okay."

There's a long stretch of silence between Darcy Lewis and Jane Foster.

In the liminal stretch of the apartment building's hall, there's little sound except the loud drone of some horribly, desperately sad song beyond the door of Unit 1131. The two women share a long look with one another, and then Darcy gestures urgently to the door.

"Go ahead," she nudges her colleague.

"What?" Jane asks in a harsh whisper, "No, you knock."

"You were the one that said we needed to do an intervention—" Darcy argues back in an equally low tone.

"Oh, so now this is on me?" Jane fires back, "She's our friend—"

"Our friend who has been babbling nonsense about things that have not happened and has been seriously obsessing with that Low-key dude—" Darcy rushes out, bringing her face closer to Jane's, "I don't even know what we're walking into here!"

Jane inhales. She pinches her brow. With a long rub of her face, she exhales. Then, she knocks.

She gives Darcy a 'happy?' look before stepping back and crossing her arms.

Almost immediately, the music stops. There's the sound of a shuffle. A meow. And then, the door opens only wide enough that one exhausted eye can peak through the chained gap.

"Heeeeeeeeeey, girl!" Darcy chides, waggling her hands in the air, "Surprise!"

On the other side of the door, your heart clenches.

It feels a little bit like a cruel joke, y'know?

All that wishing, begging, clawing to go home and — well... you are. You're home. You've been home. For six months, you've been home in New York City. You're back in that little studio apartment, with Sigurd, with your research, with your doctorate.

ALL I WANT TO DO IS GO HOME.

You try your best to give both Darcy and Jane a smile, but it comes out mangled and exhausted and not quite right. You've been crying. Sort of par for the course these days.

"Oh, uh... Hi guys."

Sigurd meows.

"You got a sec?" Jane asks, raising a folder in her hands, "We, uh... Erik gave us some new anomaly data to look over and we figured... you're the one for the job! Y'know? It's... kinda... your thing... have you been crying?"

Your eyes dart between them both. You wet your lips.

"No. Nooo, no. It's..." your mouth hangs open as you search for a reason, "...Allergies."

There's a beat of embarrassing silence, and then Darcy moves fast as lightning. She wriggles her arm through the gap and unlocks the chain — almost as if this is definitely something she's mastered before — before pushing her way through the doorway of your apartment. Jane follows close behind, and Sigard squawks as he scurries away from underfoot.

The infiltration is almost immediately regretted because... woah.

Like, big woah.

Darcy has seen crazy. Like, she has an Uncle on her Dad's side who is totally in on the whole "they're coming for our thoughts" thing and does not leave the house without at least six layers of Great Value tinfoil stuffed under his baseball cap. She knows crazy. She works for Erik Selvig.

But this?

This is, like, soooooo above her pay grade.

Jane's jaw is slack. The folder is immediately forgotten on the kitchen island in favor of the wall-to-wall documentation of... whatever the hell this was.

LOKI MISSING? in the center of it all, with string and equations and runes and news articles and tabloid pages. There's an alarming amount of photos of the God in question pinned up beside ramblings on... Time? And... Quantum mechanics...?

There's another loooooong stretch of silence. And then, Darcy and Jane both turn slowly to look at you pressed against the door.

You swallow.

Your face is set in horror.

"It's not what it looks like—"

"Uh, dude, it totally is what it looks like—" Darcy starts, stepping closer to the board and pointing a black, manicured finger at a paparazzi photo of Loki being carted off from the now-Avengers Tower, "What's with all the Loki paraphernalia?! Need I post a lil' throwback Thursday to when he tried to kill us all?"

IT'S THURSDAY AGAIN.

You wince. "You wouldn't understand—"

Then, it happens.

The same thing you've experienced dozens upon dozens of times these last six months happens again: A rush of chatter in your mind, a cacophony of whispers that claw at your thoughts and flood them with has-beens and will-be's. A million things all at once, a little bit of everything from all of time, and then— one thread. One thread that stands out against them all.

"Jane, don't."

Across the room, Jane's fingers pause on the contact number for that pretty S.H.I.E.L.D. agent they've met once or twice now — the one who is managing the Asgardian anomaly cases. With Loki missing, S.H.I.E.L.D. has been desperate to track him down. If this is a lead... If you know where he is...

Jane's face freezes.

Her brows knit.

Your face is split in panic. "I know you think calling Agent Hill is the right thing to do, but—"

"...How did you know I was...?" Jane's voice falls off, her eyes searching your face.

Your voice splinters as you step forward. "If you call Agent Hill, she is going to section our entire division within the week. Thor will be exiled from Earth on conspiracy four days later. We will sit in a cell for five years until they decide we have nothing to do with Loki's disappearance from Asgard."

Darcy's eyes bounce between you and Jane.

"Why are you saying all that like you know it's going to happen?" Jane asks slowly, putting her phone down and closing the gap between you. "Doc, what's going on?"

Your eyes flicker with fear.

And then exhaustion. The walls you've built to keep this away from the others crumble with one worried look from Darcy, and you crumple against the kitchen counter.

Your voice is far away.

"It all started that Thursday."

You thought it would be better now that someone knows.

Truth be told it might be more trouble than it's worth if not to soothe the burden of secrecy — because Darcy keeps treating you like a Magic 8 Ball that, when shaken, is going to spit out readings on the future.

It isn't that easy. I mean, if it was, you would have definitely done everything in your power to avoid the commute traffic this morning.

You don't know why it happens. Or how. You have a theory it has something to do with Alioth, but... without any sort of control, there's no way of knowing. All you know is that in those moments, you're presented with a weave of potential sequences. And in those moments, you can choose to act. Or not.

So far, acting seems to be the best course of action.

But, yea, no. No fortune-cookie-level stuff. No crystal ball, no tarot cards. Just... weird time-whispers. And a migraine that seems to never go away. And dreams. Really vivid dreams. Dreams that happen? And dreams that don't.

If it was a horoscope sort of thing, maybe you wouldn't have missed your morning bus after waiting in line at that coffee shop three blocks down. They always make your coffee a little too bitter, but the girl behind the counter is an NYU grad student you recognized from a mechanical engineering lecture you sat in on three months ago. You've got a soft spot for her. She's always nice to that guy in the baseball cap who seems unhoused.

You hope it all works out for her in the end.

But, Christ this coffee is bitter.

You buzz into Stark Labs at 9:37 am, and you're setting your stuff down at R&D by 9:43 am.

Bruce Banner looks up briefly from his work to slide you a welcoming smile. You return it gently as you settle down on your stool and reacclimate yourself to last week's work.

Mondays, man.

Tony is, as always, later than anyone else. His entrance is followed by the usual boisterous chatter meant as a morale booster. More often than not it's a genius-level comedy routine built on absolutely torturing Dr. Banner. You opt, more often than not, to refuse to enable the bad behavior.

Any laughter is buried deep into these readings from the Tesseract.

And so this has been home for the last four months.

Avengers Tower. R&D. Erik Selvig's Research Team. Theoretical Physics and Quantum Mechanics. Day in, day out.

No TVA, no TemPads, no Sylvie, no Mobius, no Capybaras.

...No Loki.

But, plenty of whispers.

It rocks you out of your focus, iced latte halfway to your lips as you're rooted in this little pocket of voices and threads and whisps of time. There's a thousand, then a hundred, then one.

Your voice is soft.

"Bruce, try the equation again."

From across the room, Tony's voice dies down and Bruce's eyes rise to meet yours. He points to himself, with a questioning raise of the brows.

You nod, then continue to take a sip of your coffee.

And so Bruce does. Wordlessly. And, after a minute, he looks up with a grin.

"So it was right."

"Woulda never known if Iron Dick over here didn't shut up for one second."

Tony's grin is bigger than Bruce's as he meanders over to your lab table and throws an arm around your shoulder. He squeezes you gently. You avoid his eye contact — and in doing so, you miss the momentary grace of concern.

(Tony has known you for a few months now. He knows you adequately enough to gauge that your triple-shot espresso should have been a sextuple. The bags beneath your eyes are dark. There's an edge there. Something jumpy. You're exhausted.)

"Now, that was mean."

"You're torturing him," you fire back lightly, non-the-wiser to his scrutiny.

"It's called exposure therapy—" Tony croons, leaning back and thumbing through some of the notes on your desk. You allow it.

Good. Still sharp. Still better than anyone else at what you do.

"Exposure to workplace terrorism?" You rib back with one cocked brow, "No offense, Bruce, but I like you better not green. Okay, Tony?"

"None taken!" Dr. Banner calls lightly from across the room. He's working on the second part of that equation now.

"Sure, sure, alright, Doc," Tony heads your words, raising both hands and stepping back, "I guess someone hates fun."

"Absolutely," you say blankly, chewing your straw; you point at him, "No laughter."

"None," Tony waggles a finger.

"Not a peep," you remark causally as you spin in your stool and snag your pen from the drawer behind you.

"Any news on the other green guy we hate?" Bruce asks slowly, eyes bouncing between you and Stark.

Your blood goes a little cold. Just like always. It's hard not to react — especially when that other green guy is all you think about day and night.

WHEN YOU LOSE HIM YOU WILL DO ANYTHING TO GET HIM BACK.

You wordlessly shake your head. You shrug. Bruce turns to Stark. Tony is hunched over his bench. His words are a bit muffled by the soldering project he's turned his attention to.

"None. According to Thor he just up and poofed. He was in the middle of atoning before the Buckingham of Asgard and... just warped on out."

So you've heard.

"Hill has been working every lead she can but... the Asgardians are a little touchy-feely on the whole 'earthlings in the domain of the Gods' thing."

"Understandable," you mutter absently.

Tony sits up. "Only time will tell."

...Indeed.

Home.

Unit 1131.

Lonely.

It wasn't before all this... It was full to the brim with contentment. It was comfort, it was bliss. It was indulgent mornings slept beneath the covers and bright music in the kitchen. Cheap wine from the liquor shop on the corner and homemade meals. It was "I finally made it".

Now, it's none of that.

Because he's out there — and you know that you don't belong here anymore.

You drop your bag by the door.

Your boots follow in a trail.

Sigurd mews expectantly, and you scoop him wordlessly into your arms as you weave through the chaos of papers and books. Your carpet is hidden beneath a layer of obsession masquerading as research.

But, there's one thing that pulls you back in each time.

It's that photo.

The one Darcy had pointed at earlier.

Loki is being carted off from the now-Avengers Tower. He's looking back at something, and his expression is broken.

It's you.

You know he's pleading with Thor at that moment through a muzzle, desperate to call your name. He's looking at you, being whisked away by S.H.I.E.L.D. as they clear the area, and your voice is silenced by grief.

You wish you had called out to him then — told him you'd find him again.

Regret is a hell of a thing.

Grief, too.

How do you mourn something you never really had? Not here, not in this timeline.

So you stand there, in the dim lights of your apartment, staring at the photo. And you cry. Just like every night, for the last six months.

In your desk, that magical little daisy made of grass waits.

If they find Sylvie, they find you.

That's the mission.

Mobius M. Mobius thinks it's funny — back then, man if only he would have known that lil' hunch of his was right. Maybe a part of him did. And... Now? Things are different. I mean, everything is different. The TVA is different.

Loki is different.

They say to be loved is to be changed an' all that.

The first thing out of Loki's mouth was your name when Mobius finally saw him again — and then a word vomit of panic, induced by the death of He Who Remains and... time-slippage as OB called it. Lotsa moving parts. Lots to keep track of. But, ultimately, they're in a better spot than they were yesterday.

1.) Loki is no longer falling through the metaphorical cracks in time.

2.) Mobius did not get toasted alive when standing before The Loom.

3.) He never, ever, ever has to do that again.

And now!

They're in London.

1977, huh. Zaniac.

If they find Sylvie, they find you.

...Unless you find him first.

Loki isn't exactly thrilled.

No, Loki knows better than to get his hopes up. Sylvie isn't here. He already told Mobius that. It's too safe. It's a damned movie premiere. There are no radiation burns, no falling stars, and no rampant gunfire. It's too quiet.

It's a movie premiere and you're out there, somewhere, alone. You're... you're lost. He can't protect you here. He can't protect anything. You... You're all he has and you're gone.

And he's here, wasting his damn time.

Brad Wolfe is about to waste more of his time.

Loki's gaze is sharp. His strides are long, and as they approach the fray, the God stands amongst the tallest of guests. He cuts a mean profile. It's times like these that Mobius remembers he is a God.

(It's times like these that Mobius can also see the ever-increasing edge in his partner-in-time. It's a little... worrisome. But understandable. I mean, rip a God's soulmate from his hands and see what happens, right?)

"So, he's an actor now?" Loki comments off-handedly, his irritation grating his heartstrings in a way that reminds him of who he was before all this. He hates it. But, he's angry. He will get you back. Without you...

Without you, he doesn't know what he'll do.

"Or he's undercover."

As they weave, Loki's brows knot in distrust. "Looks pretty real to me."

It smells like cigarettes and perfume, and the flashbulbs bite sharply into Loki's peripherals. The raven-haired trickster winces, tucking his hands into his slacks.

On the red carpet, X-5 moves from interview to interview. Occasionally his laughter rises above the clamor. Each time, Loki's nostrils flare and he rolls his eyes.

It's when he reaches the end of the line that Mobius moves in.

"Will there be a Zaniac Two?"

The look on Brad's face says enough for Mobius to know there's more going on here than just an undercover bit. Brad's laugh, as equally pained as his smile, just cements the fact.

"Mobius! Woah!" A clap on the shoulder, a big hug. "I used to work with this guy!"

Still a show. Still a weasel trying to survive on his little slice of time.

"We're going to need to catch up," he begins, backing up slowly, "You know, why don't we chat after the show?"

"How about now, maybe?" Mobius counters just as Brad turns on his heel and comes face to face with Loki.

The God sneers.

"Woah. Okay, ha, whole gangs here!" he chirps, "Isn't that... great? Wow. I mean, you look — you look great, Loki."

"Why thank you, Brad."

Brad's eyes are manic, and he's searching the crowd quickly — no doubt looking for an exit. Then, they catch something. When Brad claps his hands together and pats them on both Loki and Mobius' shoulders, the two TVA agents pause.

"Everything alright?" Loki asks, head tilting in faux concern.

"Everything is great, actually, because when I was here," he begins, words quick and anxious as he tries to weave some sort of story, "I met a mutual friend!"

"Sylvie?" Mobius asks tightly.

"No, no, uh, better—"

Loki's jaw tightens. Enough of this. "We have some mutual friends back at the TVA who would like a word, as well—"

"Doc!" calls Brad after finally finding her in the sea of people, turning on his heel and calling out over his shoulder, "I got people I need you to meet!"

And just like that, it's like Loki's whole world splits wide open again.

In the fray of photographers and journalists, in the fray of drinks and the haze of smoke, there's you. You're smiling at Brad, positively beaming. You're bright as a star and Gods, there's no one in the room when you step forward with a laugh.

Your dress is green. Your hair is different.

There's a beauty mark on your left cheek. His version of you has a scar that lies there. A mistimed gift from Sylvie before their period on Lamentis.

"Doc, these are some of my friends from work," Brad points, his hand falling along your waist in a way that makes Loki's blood boil; the ex-TVA Hunter leans close to your cheek, "They're the real deal."

You laugh into your drink, then extend your hand to Mobius. He's trying his best to hide his growing dread. "It's a pleasure."

Mobius takes it and shakes it gently. "And how do you have the pleasure of knowing our starlet, Brad?"

Damn it. He's losing Loki in real time here.

"Doc here did all the practical effects on set for Zaniac," Brad's eyes connect with Loki's — but the God is focused on only you... Her. Until Wolfe digs in with a low murmur meant to do just what it does, "She's a real wiz with her hands."

The God's face snaps. He will kill Brad, he decides. But, then this other-you moves to offer her hand and he can't help but melt.

His fingers are trembling when he touches her skin.

"Have we met before?" comes the soft lilt of her voice — this Variant's eyes are brown. They search Loki's face for a shred of recognition but all that's there between the two of them is raw attraction. A law of time and space unhindered by meddling hands. No matter where, no matter when, you will find one another.

Loki's mouth is dry. Your lipstick shade is a dark rogue. He thinks about that kiss back in the Void. He's stuck there, with your hand in his, when Brad bolts.

Her face contorts in confusion. She pulls away. But, Loki lingers.

He has to... He...

He needs you back.

Now.

#beyond the void #from the void with love #loki x reader #loki x doc #loki x y/n #loki reader insert #loki/reader #loki/you #loki imagine #marvel imagine #marvel reader insert #loki season 2 fic #marvel fanfic

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