#glare screen for monitor

[its-faizurbd-me]

Step-by-Step Guide to Installing and Adjusting a Dual Monitor Stand

Installing a dual monitor desk mount stand lets you arrange your monitors at the ideal height and angle, which will enhance your workspace and general comfort.

[sixeyesonathiel]

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

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

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

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

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

the compressor’s peaking again.

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

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

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

ping.

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

you.

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

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

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

“no,” he types, then erases it.

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

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

i guess. send what you have.

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

flashback.exe

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

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

but you were different.

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

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

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

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

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

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

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

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

typical.

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

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

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

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

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

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

he watches again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he’s close. too close.

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

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

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

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

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

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

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

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

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

np.

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

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

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

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

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

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

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

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

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

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

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

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

to replay your giggle.

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

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

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

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

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

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

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

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

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

ping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he freezes.

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

you giggle.

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

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

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

satoru’s fingers twitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he tries to normalize it.

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

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

he tells himself he’s just learning.

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

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

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

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

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

the next class is worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a new text lights up his screen:

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

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

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

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

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

he hates himself.

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

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

it starts with static in his skull.

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

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

it doesn’t help.

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

satoru’s trying.

really.

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

2:03 a.m.

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

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

march haul (raw).mp4

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

click.

of course he does.

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

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

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

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

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

he knows it.

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

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

he does.

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

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he doesn’t blink.

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

he can’t breathe.

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

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

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

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

but it’s you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it’s been three weeks.

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

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

the worst part?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

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

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

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

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

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

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

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

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

baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

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

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

it starts with a ping.

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

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

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

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

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

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

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

satoru doesn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your silence makes him spiral.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

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

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

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

“i know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“mine.”

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

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

friday’s going to be filthy.

[chandutiwar]

In an era where digital devices have become an indispensable part of our lives, protecting our eyes from harmful blue light and maintaining privacy has become more crucial than ever. Enter Pxin Monitor Privacy Screen Guards, the ultimate solution to safeguarding your eyes and data privacy while enhancing your viewing experience.

[neferaskingdom]

♡ You're Doing Amazing Sweetie | MV1

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: George finds out and the only thing Y/n can do is hide and pray that George doesn't take out Max on track.

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

Y/n paces anxiously near the monitors while Charles and Lando loiter as if they had all the time in the world. Charles had his arms crossed, his race suit tied around his waist, and Lando was demolishing a plate of snacks meant for the Ferrari engineers. Y/n had been hiding out in the Ferrari garage since the paddock opened to avoid crossing paths with George.

“Okay, tell me the truth—how screwed am I?” Y/n asks, whipping around to face them.

“Oh, monumentally,” Lando replies through a mouthful of cookie. “Like Titanic levels. Possibly Pompeii.”

Charles nods along solemnly. “Also George is definitely plotting something. He walked by earlier muttering to himself like a Bond villain.”

“Fuck” Y/n groans pacing faster.

“You do realize hiding here makes you look guiltier, right?” Lando says, biting into another cookie

Y/n glares at him. “What do you want me to do? Parade around the paddock with a sign that says ‘Yes George, I am the mother of Max Verstappen’s future spawn’?!”

Charles snorts so hard that his espresso nearly spills. “Please don’t. George would spontaneously combust.”

“Plus technically speaking this is your fault,” Lando says, jabbing a finger at her.

She raises an eyebrow. “My fault? I’m not the one who told the entire world, ‘If it weren’t for the baby.’”

“That part was clearly Max’s fault,” Lando interjects, not looking up from his plate. “But this whole ‘let’s date secretly’ thing? Yeah, I’m blaming you for that one.”

“Excuse me?” Y/n shoots back.

“Don’t get defensive,” Charles says, holding his hands up. “But we told you this would end in disaster. And now? Look at you. Hiding in my garage like some kind of fugitive because George looks like he’s ready to blow up Redbull’s hospitality. You should have told George the second you two realized your relationship was serious.”

Y/n groans, tugging at her hair. “What’s done is done and I can’t change that now can I? And I’m here because I obviously can’t stay at the Mercedes garage if I want to avoid my brother and staying at Redbull is a deathwish. Imagine what’ll happen if he catches us both in the same place. I just hope George doesn't do anything stupid in public”

“Why do you think we’re here?” Lando says, grinning as he gestures to himself and Charles. “We’re like the UN Peacekeepers of the paddock. We’ll keep them both separate and make sure nothing happens today.”

“Like that's very reassuring,” Y/n mutters.

As the drivers line up for the national anthem, Y/n stays glued to the monitors, trying to keep a low profile. George, however, was impossible to miss.

“Great,” she mutters to herself as the camera pans to him. His jaw was clenched, his expression thunderous. It looked like he was barely holding himself together.

Oscar was hovering near George, subtly blocking him every time he shifted toward Max. Y/n couldn’t help but feel sorry for the Aussie, who looked like he’d accidentally wandered into a battlefield.

From his other side, Lando was casually draping an arm over his shoulder as if trying to calm him down. Instead, it seems to piss off George even more as he tried to shrug him off with a sharp glare, but Lando remained latched on.

“Please let this be over,” Y/n pleads at the screen.

The tension only escalated as the drivers headed to their cars. George made one last attempt to corner Max, and Y/n’s heart leaped into her throat.

“Oh no. Oh no. Don’t do it,” she whispered at the screen.

Oscar, ever the unwilling mediator, once again intercepted George, his hands up in a placating gesture. Y/n let out a relieved breath as George backed off, though he still looked furious.

She slumped back into her seat, her nerves frayed.

“Just one race,” she muttered to herself. “One race without drama. Is that too much to ask for?”

The drivers climbed into their cars, and the screen cut to the grid formation. Y/n felt a brief moment of peace, knowing that for the next couple of hours, George and Max would be too busy driving to tear into each other.

f1teaspill posted:

f1teaspill: Tensions are at an all-time high after today’s race! George Russell’s post-race interview took a dramatic turn when a journalist brought up Max’s cryptic baby comment and rumors about George’s sister. 😱 After repeatedly trying to dodge the question, George snapped, delivered a firm warning about personal boundaries, and stormed off.

The paddock drama just keeps escalating. Fans spotted George glaring at Max throughout the national anthem, and it seems like Oscar and Lando had to play paddock security to keep the peace. What’s your take on all this chaos? 🍼👀

Post-Race Interview Transcript:

Journalist: George, P5 today—a decent result to round out the season. Can you walk us through how you’re feeling about the race and the team’s performance?

George: (nodding) Yeah, it was a solid race. Not quite the result we hoped for, but the team worked hard all weekend. We gave it our best shot with the car we had. Of course, as a driver, you always want more, but I think we made the most of the opportunities we had out there.

Journalist: Fair enough. And, of course, today marks the end of an era with Lewis Hamilton’s final race for Mercedes. What’s it like to share this moment with him? Any reflections?

George: (pauses, visibly emotional) It’s bittersweet, really. Lewis has been such a huge part of the team and the sport as a whole. He’s not just a teammate but also a mentor and a legend in Formula 1. Sharing the garage with him has been an honor. I think I speak for everyone at Mercedes when I say we’re incredibly grateful for everything he’s brought to the team and wish him all the best for what comes next.

Journalist: Well said. Now, George, I have to shift gears a bit—there’s been a lot of chatter about some off-track tension. During the national anthem, fans couldn’t help but notice you glaring at Max Verstappen. Care to address that?

George: (stiffens, smile faltering) I wasn’t glaring at anyone. I was focused on the race, like I always am. People are reading into things that just aren’t there.

Journalist: Really? Because from the footage, it looked quite... pointed. And after Max’s comments yesterday about making peace with you ‘because of a baby,’ it’s hard not to wonder—

George: (cuts in, voice tight) I don’t see how that’s relevant to today’s race.

Journalist: (pressing) George, fans are speculating nonstop. Is it true? Is your sister having Max Verstappen’s baby?

George: (visibly bristling, voice rising) I think we’ve strayed far enough from the purpose of this interview. This is about Formula 1, about racing—not gossip or baseless rumors.

Journalist: With all due respect, George, Max’s words weren’t exactly cryptic. He was talking about a baby and making amends with you. Surely, you can understand why people are curious.

George: (snaps, voice sharp) Curious or not, it’s none of anyone’s business. This is supposed to be a post-race interview—not a soap opera recap. The media needs to learn where to draw the line. We’re here to race, not have our personal lives dissected under a microscope.

Journalist: But George, the fans—

George: (interrupts sharply) No. Enough. The media needs to maintain boundaries and stop meddling in our personal lives. I’m done here.

(George rips off his team cap, storms away from the interview pen, and disappears into the paddock, leaving the journalist and cameras stunned.)

Comments:

user: George was NOT here for the nonsense today. That ‘draw the line’ speech? ICONIC

user: Honestly, respect to George for standing up for himself. The journalist was pushing way too hard. Let the man race in peace user: Never seen George this mad before 😳 What is going on in the House of Commons???

user: Why do I feel like this confirms the baby news? Like he didn’t deny it, and his reaction was TOO intense

user: Respect to George for standing up to the journalist, but let’s not lie—he 100% confirmed the drama with that reaction. 🍼

user: Okay, but imagine George finding out about the baby at the same time as us 😭

user: George looked like he was going to deck Max during the national anthem. Thank you, Oscar, for literally being a human shield

user: No but why did George look like he was seconds away from body-slamming Max during the anthem? Lando had to literally hold him back 💀

user: Okay, but the real question is… what BABY? Whose baby? Did George even KNOW about this baby before today?!

user: Theory time! 1. Max and Y/n were dating in secret. 2. George didn’t know about the baby and is spiraling. 3. Netflix is eating GOOD

user: Imagine being George and learning about your sister’s alleged baby from Twitter

user: Lewis’ last race with Merc and THIS is what George has to deal with. Poor guy’s gonna need therapy after this season

user: The way everyone’s ignoring this is also Lewis’ last race with Mercedes 💀. George snapped so hard we forgot to be emotional

user: Lando probably whispered something dumb like ‘You’re doing amazing, sweetie’ while George was vibrating with rage

user: F1 isn’t just a sport. It’s a reality TV show with occasional car racing

Max stood under the glare of the cameras, trying to look composed despite the post-race fatigue gnawing at him. P6 wasn’t what he’d wanted, but at least he’d avoided the chaos brewing elsewhere in the paddock—or so he thought.

“So, the strategy was clearly compromised by the penalty,” the journalist asked, her tone probing. “Do you think there was any way to recover from that?”

Max nodded slightly, his words coming out measured. “Yeah, it was tough. We lost track position early, and once you’re in traffic—”

“Sorry to interrupt.”

The voice was eerily calm, almost polite, but it carried a weight that immediately silenced the conversation. Max turned to see George standing there, his posture casual but his jaw clenched tight.

The journalist blinked, clearly taken aback. “Uh, George? We’re in the middle of—”

“I need a moment with Max,” George cut her off, his tone civil but firm. He glanced at Max’s PR manager with an unnervingly calm smile. “I hope you don’t mind.”

The PR manager hesitated, looking between Max and George. Max let out a quiet sigh, already resigned to whatever was about to unfold. He gave a small nod. “It’s fine. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Before anyone could say another word, George’s hand clamped onto Max’s shoulder. It wasn’t rough, but it left no room for argument.

Max allowed himself to be steered away, his body language slumping slightly as though accepting his fate. George didn’t say a word as he guided Max through the paddock, weaving past mechanics and team personnel. A few glanced their way, their curiosity piqued, but no one dared to intervene.

“Are you going to say something, or are we just walking in ominous silence?” Max finally muttered, keeping his tone light but knowing full well George wasn’t in the mood for jokes.

George didn’t respond, his grip tightening slightly as they turned into a quieter corridor behind the team hospitality units.

“Okay,” Max said with a dry laugh, “this is starting to feel like a bad cop drama.”

George stopped abruptly, spinning Max around and slamming him against the wall. The thud echoed in the empty space, and Max winced slightly but didn’t resist.

“We need to talk,” George said, his voice low and steely, every word laced with barely contained anger.

Max met his gaze, his usual unflappable demeanor faltering under the intensity of George’s glare. For a moment, the air between them was thick with tension, unspoken words hanging heavy in the silence.

Taglist: @ilovechickenwings @spooky-librarian-ghost @diaryofarandomkid @rd14 @hc-dutch @96mcobo @grussellsprout @tremendousstarlighttragedy @awritingtree @shelbyteller @diorbrxtz

@henna006 @freyathehuntress @nichmeddar @formulaal @sleutherclaw

@anilovessadbooks @mangotaitai @vtryy @finn-dot-com @sarahsobsession

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ shades of cool ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ hwang in-ho x player!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header! there is also a part one to this imagine, playing dangerous, a part two, do you think you’d kill for me, one day? and a part three, ultraviolence.

˚ ༘♡ you stirred, the weight of consciousness creeping back in like a slow, unwelcome sensation. the first thing you noticed was the pain, not sharp, but dull and ever-present, pulsing from your leg in as a painful remnant of what had happened. your eyes fluttered open, and the room before you swam into view, blurred and unfamiliar.

˚ ༘♡ soft, warm light illuminated the bedroom, the golden glow radiating off polished wood and gilded accents. the room was lavish beyond imagination. silk curtains hung in folds along the high windows, their rich, deep hue a stark contrast to the sterile white sheets covering you. the bed beneath you was impossibly soft, its headboard ornate and meticulously carved.

˚ ༘♡ it didn’t feel real.

˚ ༘♡ your gaze dropped to your leg, your breath hitching at the sight of thick, pristine bandages wrapped around your injured knee. the ache was dulled, numbed, and for a minute you thought it was a dream, until the frigid tug of an iv in your arm brought you fully into reality. clear tubing snaked its way from the crook of your elbow to a stand beside the bed, the consistent drip of fluid into your veins the only sound in the unnerving quiet.

˚ ༘♡ panic set in as you scanned the room for answers. sleek medical monitors blinked softly in the corner, their digital hum an eerie companion to the slow rhythm of your heartbeat displayed on the screen. the pure cleanliness of it all, no blood, no chaos, no grimy stairwells, was jarring.

˚ ༘♡ the door creaked open.

˚ ༘♡ your body tensed instantly, your hands gripping the sheets as you turned toward the sound. standing in the doorway was young-il, but something about him was different. he was dressed head to toe in onyx-black now, the sharp lines of his attire immaculate, his presence nearly unrecognizable.

˚ ༘♡ your breath caught in your throat as a sensation of horror surged through your body. you struggled to push yourself up, wincing as the motion sent a jolt of pain through your leg. “you bastard,” you spat, your voice hoarse and trembling with both fury and anguish. “what the hell is this? what did you do?”

˚ ༘♡ his expression was undisturbed, his face composed, as though he hadn’t betrayed you, shot you, and left you to bleed out. his voice was soft when he spoke, almost gentle. “you’re safe now.”

˚ ༘♡ safe? the word felt like an insult, a mockery of everything he had done. “safe?” you snapped, your voice rising despite the weakness in your body. “you shot me! you killed them! where are jung-bae and gi-hun? what happened to them?”

˚ ༘♡ he hesitated, the pause heavy with unspoken truths. “their fate… isn’t yours to worry about,” he said at last, his tone measured, deliberately vague. the non-answer only stoked the fire of your anger, your hands clenching into fists.

˚ ༘♡ “don’t give me that nonsense,” you grimaced. “tell me what happened to them!”

˚ ༘♡ his gaze softened, as if he pitied you. it made your stomach twist. “you’ll have your answers in time,” he said evenly. “but for now, there’s something more important you need to understand.”

˚ ༘♡ your chest heaved with ragged breaths as you glared at him, the venom in your gaze meeting his unnervingly tranquil demeanor. “and what’s that?”

˚ ༘♡ he stepped closer, his shadow stretching across the floor, enveloping you in its reach. “my name isn’t young-il,” he said, his voice steady but carrying an undertone that made your pallid skin crawl. “it’s hwang in-ho. i am the front man, the overseer of these games.”

˚ ༘♡ his words hit you as though it was a physical blow, the weight of their meaning sinking in too slowly, too horribly. your jaw slackened as confusion, revulsion, and fear collided within you. you shook your head, as if denying the truth could erase it.

˚ ༘♡ “no,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “no, that can’t be…”

˚ ༘♡ “it is,” he interrupted, his tone kind, almost soothing, as though he were breaking news to a child. “i know it’s a lot to process, but it’s the truth. everything you’ve been through, everything you’ve seen, it all leads back to me.”

˚ ༘♡ his serenity, his gentleness, only made it worse. you stared at him, horrified, unable to reconcile the man before you with the one who had saved your life, who had stood by your side, who you thought you could trust. your heart pounded in your chest, a desperate beating of denial as his revelation sent cracks through your already fragile world.

˚ ༘♡ you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him, your mind frantically trying to stitch together some coherent explanation for what he was saying. every word felt like a jagged shard, cutting into what little remained of your trust. the man you thought you knew had unraveled into someone monstrous, someone you couldn’t even begin to understand.

˚ ༘♡ “you want answers,” he said quietly, moving to stand at the foot of the bed. his hands rested at his sides, his posture unnervingly relaxed. “then let me give them to you.”

˚ ༘♡ you didn’t reply, your throat too tight to push out words. the tremor in your hands betrayed the dread coursing through you, though you tried to mask it with a glare that had lost its edge.

˚ ༘♡ he let out a desolate breath, his gaze dropping briefly before returning to yours. “a long time ago, i was no different from you or any other contestant for these games. i was desperate, clinging to whatever hope i could find. my wife…” his voice caught, for a split second, but he quickly recovered, his expression hardening. “she was pregnant, but she was sick. we didn’t have the money for the treatments she needed. i tried everything, loans, work, begging. nothing was enough.”

˚ ༘♡ you felt a pang of unease, the words pulling at a part of you that didn’t want to empathize, didn’t want to understand.

˚ ༘♡ “when i heard about the games, i saw no other choice,” he continued. “i thought… if i could win, i could save her. i convinced myself it was worth it. the blood, the horror, it would all be justified if it meant saving her.” his eyes grew distant, as though he were watching memories play out before him, each one dragging him deeper into a place he didn’t want to go.

˚ ༘♡ “and you won,” you said bitterly, though your voice lacked strength. the image of him standing victorious in those games twisted your stomach, making you sick. “so why are you here? why are you doing this to other people?”

˚ ༘♡ his lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening. “i won,” he admitted, his tone heavy with something you couldn’t name. “despite my efforts, my win and the prize money came too late. she died, and so did the baby… our baby. nothing i had done mattered, not the lives i’d taken, not the suffering i endured. it was all for nothing.”

˚ ༘♡ the bitterness in his voice was unmistakable, but it was the coldness in his eyes that terrified you. it was as though the memory of that loss had hollowed him out, leaving behind only shards of the man he once was.

˚ ༘♡ “after she died,” he said, “i had nothing. no one. those behind the games saw that. they saw what i had become, angry, empty, ready to do whatever it took to escape the emptiness. they offered me purpose, a chance to rebuild myself in their ideology. and i took it.”

˚ ༘♡ his admission hung in the air, suffocating and heavy. you wanted to scream at him, to ask how he could justify becoming the very thing that destroyed him, but the words wouldn’t leave your lips.

˚ ༘♡ “and you…” his voice mellowed, and for the first time, his mask of stability cracked only slightly. “you remind me of her. not simply for how you look, but… the way you care. the way you fight, even when everything is against you. there’s a tender beauty in you that i haven’t seen in any soul for years.”

˚ ༘♡ his words sent a chill down your spine. notion idea that he saw any part of his late wife in you was unbearable. you stared at him, horrified, searching his face for any sign of deception, but all you saw was the unsettling truth of his sincerity.

˚ ༘♡ “don’t,” you whispered, your voice quivering with rage. “don’t you dare compare me to your dead wife. don’t you dare use her memory to excuse what you’ve done.”

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t flinch, though something appeared in his expression, regret, perhaps, or something deeper. “i’m not excusing it,” he said quietly. “i know what i’ve become. but it doesn’t change what i see.”

˚ ༘♡ you shook your head, tears threatening to spill as the weight of his words pressed down on you. the man standing before you wasn’t just a stranger, he was a nightmare, a ghost of the person he once was, and you couldn’t decide which was worse.

˚ ༘♡ you couldn’t reconcile the man before you with the one who had pulled you out of the fire so many times before. the one who had shielded you, consoled you when you were hurt, and risked his life to save yours. even as he revealed the truth, this sinister, unfathomable truth, a part of you couldn’t forget the way his hands had steadied you in instances of chaos or the way he had spoken to you with warmth when everything else had been so cold.

˚ ༘♡ yet that part of you, small as it was, waged a bitter war with your anger and disgust. you couldn’t ignore what he’d done, what he was. you had seen him kill without hesitation, betray without remorse. yet somehow, despite everything, the memory of his quiet acts of care gnawed at your resolve, complicating the clarity of your rage.

˚ ༘♡ “why?” you demanded, your voice cracking under the weight of everything. “why did you save me if you were just going to do this? why did you act like you cared?”

˚ ༘♡ his expression softened, and for a second, the cold, calculating overseer seemed to fade. in his place was the man who had once held your hand, who had spoken with a gentleness that felt so real you couldn’t dismiss it entirely. “because i do care,” he said, his voice low, almost pleading. “more than you know.”

˚ ༘♡ you shook your head, tears threatening to spill. “you don’t get to say that,” you whispered, your voice quivering with misery and despair. “not after everything you’ve done. you don’t get to care.”

˚ ༘♡ he stepped closer, the weight of his presence filling the space between you. you wanted to recoil, to push him away, but your body betrayed you, frozen in place. “i know what i am,” he said softly, his tone stable yet tinged with something raw. “i know what i’ve done. but that doesn’t make what i feel for you any less real.”

˚ ༘♡ “don’t,” you murmured, though the word came out weak, your anger faltering under the intensity of his dark gaze. “don’t try to make this about me. you’re just trying to justify…”

˚ ༘♡ “i’m not,” he interrupted, his voice firm but quiet. “i’m not trying to justify anything. i… i couldn’t lose you.”

˚ ༘♡ the confession hung in the air, heavy and morose. you wanted to lash out, to shout at him, to tell him that his words didn’t change anything. but instead, you found yourself searching his face, looking for the lie, the manipulation. and you didn’t find it.

˚ ༘♡ you hated him, but you couldn’t deny that you had trusted him, even cared for him, before the truth came crashing down. those memories, tainted by what you knew now, lingered like ghosts, haunting you in ways you couldn’t escape.

˚ ༘♡ “you don’t get to feel that way about me,” you said, though your voice wavered, lacking the conviction you wanted it to carry.

˚ ༘♡ “i know,” he murmured, his gaze unwavering, his closeness almost unbearable. “but i do.”

˚ ༘♡ before you could think, before you could stop it, he leaned in. the world seemed to still as his face drew closer, his presence overwhelming. you hated him, you loathed him, but the confusion, the anger, the lingering warmth of the man you thought you knew muddled everything.

˚ ༘♡ when his lips met yours, it wasn’t soft or careful. it was desperate, a confession in itself, and against your better judgment, against every screaming thought in your head, you didn’t pull away. instead, you let the infatuation consume you, the bitterness, the anger, the ache of betrayal melding together into something raw and inescapable.

˚ ༘♡ when it broke, you were left shaking, your breaths uneven as you stared at him, your heart pounding with emotions you couldn’t even begin to name. you hated him, but lord, you hated how much you wanted to understand him even more.

a/n: you all asked for another part so i had to write part four!! i had a cosmetic procedure that requires me to stay home for a few days so if you have any requests, this is the time!! i hope you all loved reading!! 🤍

[theonottsbxtch]

MY KINDA CRAZY | LN4

an: i was listening to do re mi by blackbear and i was just thinking about the concept of lando dating a driver who is just straight up insane but that's their dynamic.

wc: 3.4k

Lando was lounging in his gaming chair, half-focused on his Quadrant stream, when he heard the sound of glass shattering in the distance. His gaze flickered, eyebrows furrowing as the noise registered. He glanced toward his mates on-screen, catching a few laughs over the headset.

“What was that?” Max asked.

He narrowed his eyes and leaned back, glancing over his shoulder toward the window. “Hang on a sec.” He muted his mic, got up and moved toward the source of the commotion.

He reached the edge of the window and peered outside—and there she was, standing beside his brand new black Ferrari, one of his precious golf clubs in hand, bringing it down on the windscreen with a satisfying crack. She looked wild-eyed, fearless, like she belonged right there, shattering his world with a smirk on her face.

He didn’t even have to look at the monitor to know his friends were watching his expression. After a pause, he unmuted the mic. “Uh, guys,” he said, exhaling a laugh. “I’ll be back in five.”

“Is that…?” Steven started. The rest fell into stunned silence, disbelief etched across their voices as he nodded, trying to suppress a grin.

“Bro, are you serious? You need to cut her off,” he heard Ethan say, as the sound of glass crunched through his headset again. They’re trying to talk him out of it, telling him how crazy this is, how she’s crazy. But he knows the truth—that they’re just as bad as each other, and he can’t imagine it any other way.

“I got it handled,” he assured them, already making his way downstairs. 

Lando stepped into the lobby, where the apartment security guards were trying—without much success—to talk her down. One of them looked up at him, relief flashing across his face. “Sir, do you want us to call the police? We’ll get her to leave.”

But he just shook his head, giving them a grin. “Nah. I’ll deal with her.”

Striding out, he reached her, catching her wrist just as she raised the golf club for another swing. She froze, looking up at him, and he could see the fire in her eyes, the way she was daring him to react.

He just grinned, leaning in close enough that she could feel his breath brush her cheek. Without breaking eye contact, he wrapped an arm around her waist and, in one swift motion, lifted her up and slinged her over his shoulder. She let out a yelp, then an indignant laugh, smacking his back with the flat of her hand.

“Put me down, you cunt!” she demanded, but there was a thrill in her voice he knew too well.

“Are you done having your moment, sweetheart?” Lando murmured, a teasing edge in his tone. He could feel her bristle, and could almost hear the smirk in her voice when she muttered, “Maybe.”

As he walked back inside, her breathless laughter filling the air, he slid his hand up the back of her thigh, just to hear her gasp. She wriggled against his shoulder, trying to hide the way her body was reacting, but he felt it—felt her melt under his touch, even as she clung to her defiance.

Once they were back inside, he let her down slowly, pressing her back against the wall. She glared up at him, but it was a look laced with something darker, something that has his pulse thrumming. He caged her in with his arms, leaning close enough to feel the heat radiating off her.

“You really thought that was gonna get a reaction out of me?” he murmured, voice low, teasing. She smirked, looking up at him through her lashes.

“Oh, it got a reaction,” she whispered, her fingers sliding down to his belt, tugging him closer.

For a moment, there was just the sound of their breaths, mingling in the charged air between them. Then he closed the gap, capturing her lips in a kiss that was hard and demanding, like they were daring each other to go further. She kissed him back fiercely, her hands twisting into his shirt, holding him as close as possible.

When they broke apart, breathless, he pulled back just enough to whisper against her lips, “Next time, try not to break the Ferrari.”

She grinned, unrepentant. “Can’t make any promises.”

She stepped through the bathroom door, expecting things to be exactly where she left them. Instead, her eyes widen as she notices the vanity—completely empty, wiped clean. Her makeup, all of it, is gone.

She dropped her phone on the floor, her jaw tightening as she stormed through the apartment, finally finding Lando lounging on the sofa, casually scrolling through his phone as if nothing’s amiss.

“You didn’t,” she hissed, fists clenched at her sides. Lando looked up slowly, meeting her glare with an infuriatingly calm expression, one eyebrow raised.

“Oh, I did,” he said, tossing his phone aside and stretching his arms across the back of the sofa. “Figured you might like a fresh start. Maybe if you didn’t wear all that makeup, you wouldn’t be getting so much attention.”

Her hands balled into fists, but she didn’t look away. He watched the spark ignite in her eyes, that unmistakable fire that was both thrilling and a little dangerous. She took a slow step toward him, a mocking smile spreading across her face.

“You’re insane,” she said, voice low and deadly, but he only grinned, watching her like he was daring her to do something about it.

“Yeah?” Lando replied, leaning back and looking her over with a smirk. “But you go wild for it.”

She stalked closer, moving to stand over him, her hands braced on either side of his shoulders, forcing him to look up at her. Her voice dropped, almost a whisper. “That was my stuff, and you don’t get to decide what I wear.”

He let out a low laugh, his gaze unwavering as he reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering just a bit too long. “Then stop trying to get my attention by looking at every other guy,” he murmured, his voice soft but dangerous, his hand trailing down the side of her face, fingers brushing along her jawline.

“You think I’m looking at anyone else?” she breathed, leaning in close enough that her lips grazed his, teasing. Her hands slid up his chest, clutching his shirt as she lowered herself to straddle him, trapping him in place. “Trust me, sweetheart, when I want someone’s attention, I get it.”

Lando felt her heartbeat against his chest, fast and unsteady, betraying the anger simmering just under the surface. He grinned, his hands moving to her waist, pulling her closer until their bodies were flush together. His voice dropped down to a whisper, low and possessive. “Then prove it.”

She didn’t hesitate, her mouth crashing into his, all sharp teeth and rough edges, like she was determined to make him regret it. He returned the kiss with equal intensity, his grip tightening as he pulled her in deeper, like he was staking his own claim. They were tangled together, her hands gripping his hair as he pressed her closer, their breaths mingling in a haze of frustration and heat.

When they finally pulled back, gasping for air, Lando smirked, brushing his thumb over her swollen lip. “See? Much better.”

When Lando walked in, the first thing he noticed was a mess of fabric strewn across the floor of the living room. The second? That familiar, smug defiance hanging in the air. His designer shirts—one after another—were lying in a pile, each one sliced clean through.

He let out a low, dark laugh, shaking his head as he picked up a piece of ruined silk. Of course she did this. Of course.

He followed the trail of destruction down the hall, where he found her sprawled on their bed, scrolling through her phone as if nothing was out of the ordinary. In her other hand, she was twirling a pair of scissors, the blade glinting as it caught the light.

He cleared his throat, and she glanced up, that innocent look in her eyes that he knew all too well. It was the look she gave right before she said something that’ll push every one of his buttons.

“Something wrong?” she asked, the corner of her mouth quirked up in a satisfied little smirk.

He stepped closer, holding up the tattered remains of one of his favourite shirts. “Oh, nothing,” he drawled, letting the fabric slip from his fingers. “Just wondering if you’ve got something you want to say.”

She gave a nonchalant shrug, returning her attention to her phone as she flicked through it lazily. “Thought I’d free up some space in your wardrobe. You never seemed to like those shirts anyway.”

He chuckled, watching her with narrowed eyes as he sat beside her on the edge of the bed, close enough that she had to look up at him. “And what if I told you that those were my favourites?” he murmured, reaching out to take the scissors from her hand, his fingers brushing her skin just a moment too long.

She tilted her head, her smirk widening as she let him take the scissors, her eyes flicking to his with that bold, unyielding spark he can never resist. “Then maybe you should take better care of your things,” she said, voice low and sweet, laced with mock innocence.

He let out another laugh, setting the scissors aside, his hand lingering on her thigh as he leaned in, close enough that he could feel her breath hitch. “And what am I supposed to do with you, hmm?” he asked, his fingers brushing slowly up her leg, tracing light circles that sent a shiver through her.

She raised her chin, meeting his gaze with a challenging glint. “Maybe you should take better care of your things,” she said again, her tone daring him to react. Her fingers trail up his chest, her touch feather-light, barely there, but enough to send heat coursing through him.

“Careful,” he whispered, voice dropping as he moved his hand up to cup her face, his thumb tracing along her cheek. “Keep this up, and I might have to show you what happens when you mess around this much, sweetheart.”

She leaned into his touch, her lips curving into a wicked smile. “Maybe that’s exactly what I want.”

She was exhausted, every muscle aching as she finally made it back to their apartment building after a gruelling day of training, it was hard to keep up with Max sometimes. She was only thinking about a hot shower and maybe collapsing into bed, but when she slid her keycard into the lock, nothing happened. She tried again, frowning as she heard the familiar beep and saw the small red light flash, denying her access.

Frustrated, she let out a sigh and looked up, only to see Lando standing by the window on the second floor, leaning casually against the frame with a smirk stretched across his face.

“You trying to come in?” he called down, amusement glinting in his eyes as he watched her wrestle with the lock.

Her jaw tightens. She raises her voice, letting her irritation show. “Open the door, or I swear I’ll—”

He just laughed, leaning out of the window, entirely unbothered. “Sorry, sweetheart, but I had to revoke your access. Apartment is under my name, after all.” He paused, tilting his head as he looked her over, clearly savouring her frustration. “It’s just... you’ve been taking a few too many liberties lately.”

She scoffed, storming toward the front desk, where the concierge looked up, shifting uncomfortably as she approached.

“Can you open the door?” she demanded, her voice sharp with exhaustion and irritation.

The concierge frowned apologetically. “I’m sorry, miss, but Mr. Norris" he hesitated, glancing up toward the smirking man in the window— “he’s requested that your access be restricted. I can’t let you in without his permission.”

Her fists clench at her sides, and she looks back up at him, glaring. He was still leaning against the window, arms folded, watching her with that smug, insufferable grin. She was just about ready to give him a piece of her mind when he called down, his voice lazy and laced with amusement.

“You know,” Lando said, “there’s a way you could get in. Just gotta say the magic word.”

She narrowed her eyes, arms crossing as she stared up at him. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Oh, come on.” He shrugged, feigning innocence. “A little begging never hurt anyone.” He grinned, tilting his head mockingly. “Or are you too proud? Red Bull’s Princess can’t say please?”

She bit back a retort, anger simmering under her skin. But the day had worn her down, and the idea of spending the night locked out was even worse than giving him what he wanted. She let out a sigh, glaring at him with a look that could kill.

“Please,” she said, voice strained, her jaw clenched tightly.

He cupped a hand to his ear, grinning wider. “Didn’t quite hear that.”

She let out a frustrated growl, swallowing her pride as she raised her voice, forcing herself to repeat it. “I said, please,” she grit out, hating every second.

But Lando only shook his head, laughing softly to himself. “Not quite enough, darling. You’re going to have to try a little harder than that.”

Her eyes narrowed, fury blazing in her gaze as she glanced around, making sure no one else beside the concierge was listening before she took a deep breath. She fixed him with a look, voice dropping lower, softer. “Please… let me in.”

For a moment, he just watched her, savouring every word, every hint of frustration in her eyes. And then, finally, he relented, nodding to the concierge with a satisfied smirk.

The door unlocks, and she strode in, tossing one last glare up toward him as she headed up to their apartment, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the wake of her frustration.

When she reached the door, he was waiting there, arms crossed as he leaned against the frame, still looking far too amused for her liking. She stormed past him, but he caught her wrist, stopping her just before she could slip away.

“Glad to see you can be reasonable,” he murmured, his voice low, laced with amusement as he pulled her closer.

She rolled her eyes, tugging her hand free, but he didn't let her go, his grip firm, challenging her as he leaned in close, his breath warm against her skin. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Don’t push it,” she muttered, but there was a hint of a smirk on her lips, her irritation melting into something warmer as he slid an arm around her waist, pulling her against him.

“Oh, I plan to,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple, savouring the way her resistance softens, just a little, under his touch.

Lando was out at the bar with Max, Charles and Oscar, a half-empty glass in his hand, when his phone buzzed on the table. Glancing down, he noticed it was his bank calling. He frowned, picking it up with a raised eyebrow.

“Hello?”

“Hi, sir, this is a courtesy call from Credit Mutuel. We just wanted to confirm a recent transaction—3,600 Euros from Versace? We wanted to make sure it was authorised.”

He let out a quiet chuckle, immediately picturing her wandering through the store, swiping his card without a second thought. Of course, she would do that.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” he said, trying to hide his amusement. “Go ahead and approve it.”

He ended the call, slipping his phone back into his pocket, just as his friends gave him questioning looks. Charles leaned in, a grin already spreading across his face. “3.6K at Versace? Who’s racking up that kind of charge?”

He shrugged, smirking as he picked up his drink. “My girl. Guess she decided to go shopping.”

They exchanged looks, half-amused, half-incredulous. Max whistled low, shaking his head. “You’ve gotta be kidding. She’s really that bold?”

“Bold?” Oscar chimed in with a laugh. “She’s insane. You really need to put a stop to that.”

He just raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “What, and miss out on all the fun?”

“Man, she’s gonna drain you dry,” Oscar said, shaking his head. “You need to cut her off.”

He took another sip of his drink, the thought not even crossing his mind. “Nah. She’s my type of crazy.”

They all looked at him like he’d lost his mind, but he didn't care. She kept him on his toes, always a little unpredictable, a little wild—and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“You’re out of your mind, man,” Max said, chuckling. “No one’s worth that kind of chaos.”

“She’s your teammate, put respect on her name.” Lando quipped, his voice light but a slight bit of truth to it.

“Teammate or not. Kelly spent 3k in Versace? I'm asking her dad to pay me back.”

He just laughed, his gaze drifting toward the door as if he half expected her to show up, Versace bags in hand and that signature defiant look on her face. “Eh this is what keeps it interesting.”

Hope you bought something nice for me to rip off tonight x

The Singapore night lights gleam across the track as the roar of the crowd echoed through the air. Lando managed to bring the car to first place. It was a win that put him further ahead in the World Drivers' Championship—closer to clinching the title that both she and him were battling for. She’d just come in third, and he knew she’d be furious about the gap widening, about him taking both the sprint and the race.

He was basking in his victory, the top step of the podium all his, the adrenaline still coursing through him, as he turned to celebrate with the other two drivers on the podium. But he couldn't ignore the tension in the air. She was standing just a few feet away, third place still sitting uncomfortably on her shoulders, the gap between them widening with each race.

Her jaw tightened as she grabbed a bottle of champagne, shaking it quickly in her hand, she slammed it on the top step of his podium, his signature celebration. And she watched.

She watched as it hit his trophy, knocking it from the podium. The silver gleamed for a split second before it crashed to the ground, the base shattering in a shower of sparkling fragments.

She stood there, blinking for a moment, watching as the trophy’s broken pieces settled at their feet, her champagne bottle still in hand, the remnants of the cork still floating in the air like confetti. Slowly, she turned her eyes to him, that familiar, defiant glint sparking in her gaze.

“Whoops?” she said, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as if she couldn’t care less about the broken trophy—or the effect it’s had on him.

He stood there for a moment, shock flashing across his face. But it was quickly replaced with a grin. He chuckled, shaking his head, his eyes never leaving hers.

Without thinking twice, he stepped off his podium, the world blurring around him as he strides over to her. Her eyes widened in surprise as he reached out, his hand slipping under her jaw, tilting her face up to his. For a heartbeat, the noise of the crowd faded, the lights dimmed, and it was just the two of them locked in a silent battle of wills.

Then, before she could react, he pulled her in, pressing his lips to hers in a kiss that was both possessive and challenging, a reminder of the victory that was still fresh on his lips. She was stiff at first, her fists clenching by her sides, every bit of her resistance radiating through her. But then, just as he was about to pull away, her grip relaxed. She let out a shaky breath against his lips, and suddenly she was kissing him back, just as fierce, just as unapologetic.

The world erupted around them in a chaotic mix of cheers and gasps, but they were lost in the heat between them. Charles, grinning like he was witnessing the best drama of the year, stepped forward with his bottle and sprayed them both, champagne splashing across their faces, soaking their race suits.

They broke apart, gasping for air, champagne dripping down their faces, but neither of them stepped back. He was grinning, that familiar arrogant smirk, knowing he had pushed her, made her break her carefully guarded composure right in front of everyone.

“You’re still behind, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “Better step it up.”

She narrowed her eyes, her lips twisting into a smirk of her own. “Keep pushing your luck,” she replied, voice dripping with challenge. “I’ll catch you sooner than you think.”

He let out a quiet laugh, raising his champagne bottle in a mock toast. “Looking forward to it.”

She was standing in front of the press, still in her race suit, a mischievous gleam in her eyes as the interviewer approached her, mic in hand. The buzz in the room was all too familiar—she’d been the talk of the circuit all season, and tonight, after the “accidental” destruction of his trophy, they were all eager to get her take on it.

“So,” the interviewer started, grinning as he raised an eyebrow, “quite the, uh, performance on the podium. How are you feeling about, well… breaking Lando’s trophy?”

She shrugged, her expression as cool and collected as ever. “Not my trophy, not my problem,” she replied, smirking as a few people in the crowd let out quiet chuckles.

The interviewer laughed, but he was clearly fishing for more. “Rumour has it that he wasn’t exactly thrilled about it. Are you worried there might be… consequences?”

Her smirk widens, and there was a dangerous glint in her eyes as she leaned just a bit closer to the mic. “Oh, it’s fine. I’ll just get punished at home,” she said, her voice dropping to a playful whisper as she glanced directly at the camera. “If you get what I mean.”

The reaction was immediate—the interviewer’s eyes widened, the crowd let out a collective gasp, and the director frantically signalled for the camera to cut the feed. But before they manage to turn it off, her laugh echoed through the speakers, rich and unapologetic, leaving the whole room buzzing with her brazen, unfiltered confidence.

As the screen went black, she tossed the mic back to the interviewer with a wink, giving the camera one last look before she strutted off, knowing she’d left them with more questions than answers—and loving every second of it.

the end.

[veltana]

Unleashed - Avengers!Bucky/Fem!Reader

✦ Pairing: Avengers!Bucky Barnes/Fem!Reader

✦ Word count: ~4,2k

✦ Rating: Explicit

✦ Warnings/tags: Sex pollen adjacent kinda, smut, a bit fluffy, one shot, possessive!Bucky, co-workers/friends to lovers, oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected sex, vaginal sex, multiple orgasms, forced orgasms, orgasm denial, dirty talk, praise, creampie, pet names (doll).

✦ Summary: During a mission, Bucky is exposed to something that removes his inhibitions and all he wants is you.

✦ Note: Previously posted on AO3 since I have basically no time or energy to write new stuff. It was titled You’re what I need before but I always hated that title so I decided to re-name it. Bucky is kind of an asshole in this, but it's just because he wants you! As always, reblogs, comments, and asks are very welcome ❤️

Masterlist | AO3

The worst part about watching from afar as a mission goes to shit is that you feel useless. Even as you dispatch medics for the team all you can do is tell them, "Help is on the way."

Captain America shouts orders that you hear through the comms. The wait feels endless until the crew of the quinjet declares that they have spotted the team and there's not much else for you to do but look at your monitors and wait for an update. When you get the call back that the team is secure you breathe a sigh of relief, but then the next message is to prepare the medical staff to receive multiple injuries and chemical exposure. You ask the crew to clarify, but they are too busy, so when you notify the medical center, they prepare a quarantine room.

Sometimes you wish you had a superpower and could be there with them instead of staring at your monitors and doing endless calculations on whatever the team needs. But then when they return they always compliment your work and tell you they don’t know how they managed without you. You try to remind yourself of those moments at times like this.

Once the quinjet is docked and everyone has been accounted for you push away from your desk and remove your headset, taking deep breaths and trying to calm your heart. A moment later a message pops up on your screen, probably because they couldn’t reach you through your comms. [Bucky wants you to come down here]

Your heart does a little flip in your chest, making you scowl. He is your friend and probably injured, you have no idea why he would be asking for you, but it’s not because he feels the same way you do. You grab your tablet and head to the MedBay.

When you get down you take stock of the situation. Nat and Steve have some scratches, Sam's arm is broken and Wanda has a few cracked ribs. Tony is bruised, his suit had taken most of the damage. You look around for Bucky but don’t see him anywhere and quickly deduce that he must be the person currently in quarantine.

When you get to the wing, you’re almost too scared to go in, afraid to see what could have happened to him. Inside, you find a team of medical personnel discussing Bucky's condition with him through a glass wall. His hair looks damp and he's wearing standard-issue quarantine clothing, soft black pants, and a black sweatshirt. When he sees you standing patiently at the side he says. "You can come back later. I need to talk to her more than I need to talk to you. Go away." His voice comes from speakers in the ceiling.

You're shocked by his behavior but smile apologetically as the white coats pass you on their way out. When you get up to the glass you hiss. "Bucky, what is wrong with you, don't be rude.” "You make it sound like I'm never rude otherwise," he laughs. "You're not rude to healthcare professionals, you know better." You glare at him as you wake your tablet. “Now what did you need me for?”

"Do you like me?" he asks. Your mouth falls open and your heart starts to beat faster. You’re happy your vitals aren’t monitored as you quickly collect yourself and try to deflect his question. "Of course I like you Bucky, you're my friend." But now it feels weird to look at him and you find a spot on the wall far behind him to focus on.

"What if I want more than friends?" is his next question and despite your best efforts, hope warms your chest. This is not happening. Of course you toyed with the idea of you and Bucky, he is always sweet to you, and if he has the chance he brings you gifts from the missions. But you’ve told yourself repeatedly that he needs someone stronger, who can keep up with him in the field and you’re not that person.

"Can we have this conversation when you are not high on some HYDRA drug?” you ask, trying to keep your voice from betraying you. They are monitoring everything in the room. And there is a sheet of unbreakable glass in between you both. If you're going to confess your feelings, it won't be like this.

"I'm not high," he huffs. "My mind has never been clearer." "I still think we should have this conversation later." "Doll, look at me." The command in his voice is so strong you don’t think, you snap your eyes to his and they are so blue and soft.

"I will feel the same tomorrow, and the day after, whenever this drug wears off but now is the only time I can't hold my tongue," he explains. You place your hand on the glass and he does the same on the other side. "It will be fine Bucky, I promise," you say just as the door opens and Steve walks in, making you pull your hand back to your side. He's showered, in a fresh pair of clothes and he swings his arm over your shoulder.

"Stop hogging her time Bucky, I know for a fact that she also needs to debrief," he smiles but Bucky looks as if he's seeing red. Through gritted teeth he presses out, "Get your fucking arm off her, punk. She's mine."

You and Steve burst into laughter because it has to be a joke, but then Bucky punches the barrier with his vibranium arm. The glass doesn't crack but both you and Steve stop short and step away in shock. Steve removes his arm and says, "I'll meet you upstairs." Before quickly heading out.

You turn to Bucky and point at him, anger rising in your chest. "What is wrong with you? Steve is your friend!" "That is what it’s like in here every day,” he points to his head. You're taken aback by his statement and his wide feral eyes. Clearly, whatever he was exposed to had messed with his head and he's not himself. “Bucky I need to go,” you tell him, and before he can protest you continue. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” You smile feebly at him and are out the door before he can say anything else.

After debriefing and having dinner you go to bed early. Your head is spinning with the day and most of all, Bucky.

It's way past midnight when you wake to the soft closing of your door. Since you always sleep with a night light the soft warm glow reflects off his left arm and leaves no doubt about who has entered your room. You blink at him but before you can ask a question he rasps out, pleading. "I need you. So bad. Please doll, help me." He moves closer to your bed.

You quickly remove your covers and get up, glad the giant t-shirt covers you to your thighs, ready to spring into action. "Anything Bucky, what do you need?" You stop an arm's length from him, but all he does is reach his hand out to cup your face, letting his thumb stroke your cheek. There is a wild look in his eyes but you keep calm. "I can't get you what you need if you don't tell me," you whisper, meeting his eyes and watching as his brow furrows.

"I need you. Right now. If I don't get to touch and taste every inch of your body I'm going to lose my mind," he confesses in a low voice. His words shock you and you hitch a breath. You’re not sure what you’re supposed to do. You have this great friendship. If things were different you would not have minded taking it to another level, but with the day in mind and the fact that he somehow got out of his containment room you say, "Bucky, you’re not yourself, you need to get back to-”

"Doll,” he interrupts with a hard voice. “For once, I feel more like myself than I have in a long time. The only thing the drug did, I think, was remove my inhibitions. For once I feel free. My mind isn't controlled by HYDRA or by fear that you'll reject me. All I know is that I crave you and I can't be quiet about it anymore.”

"Bucky… I…" your whole body is flushed with warmth from his words and you're not sure how to respond. "I dreamt about you and couldn't stop myself from going over here. I don't want to hurt you, doll, but I'm not sure this drug will let me leave. All I wanna do is move closer to you.” You swallow hard as he continues, thumb still stroking your cheek. “Ask FRIDAY to get Steve, or the Hulk if you want me to leave."

Instead, you step into him, making up your mind in an instant and resting your hands on his chest. "Stay, I'll be glad to help you with anything you need," you whisper honestly and by the way his eyes widen there was still some doubt in his mind that you would reject him.

Instead of saying anything his vibranium hand grasps your waist and pulls you closer. There is no escaping the smell and size of him and his hands on you got your pussy throbbing for him already.

"I hope you understand what you've agreed to," he whispers, leaning closer. "Once I have you I won't stop, you'll never be rid of me. I'll claim you against every surface of this fucking compound if I need to." That makes you whimper and press harder against him. "Fuck you'd like that huh? Are you a kinky little thing? Like getting fucked where people can see you and hear you moan, do you want people to see my hard dick spread you open?" "Fuck Bucky!" You exclaim and lean your forehead against his chest. Maybe that idea excites you or maybe it is just that the word ‘claim’ sounds so primal.

"You're going to tell me all your little secrets later, doll. But now, I'm going to take what's mine." And with that, he crushes his lips to yours. He backs you towards the bed, kissing you the whole time, letting his hands explore you. When you land on your back, he stands over you with eyes like a predator about to devour its prey.

You shuffle up until your head rests on the pillows, spreading your legs for him. Without taking off any clothes he crawls after you, settling on his knees between your legs and placing his hands on the headboard, crowding you with his large frame. "Mine," he whispers and it makes a shudder pass through you. He ruts his clothed cock against your core, slicking your underwear even more and making you whine, gripping the sheets under you.

"Yes," he almost hisses as the length of his dick presses on your clit and forces a mewl out of you. It's been a long time since you've gotten laid. "Bucky," you plead. "No doll, I'm going to enjoy every fucking second of claiming you, from the outside in. Did you think this would be hard and fast and that I would be gone before you knew what happened?"

He lets go of the headboard to put his elbows beside your head instead, his weight on you, pressing you down into the mattress. "When I leave you will long for me, spend every waking second wishing I was still inside you. I want your cunt to be permanently drenched so I can fuck you whenever I please." He kisses you forcefully and any coherent thought that was left in your head flees. "And when you're too sore to take more of my dick in your pussy I'm going to do the same thing to your mouth and ass."

He rids you off your t-shirt and instead of having to move from between your legs to pull off your underwear, he rips them apart. "Ah!" you exclaim when the force of his movements jolts you but he takes no notice, he just stares at you, letting his hands roam up and down your sides, up to your tits, cupping them and caressing your nipples with his thumbs.

Whimpers are coming from you with every pass of this touch. Then he moves down and lays on his stomach, not saying a word as he sweeps his tongue over your pussy before he starts devouring you with a throaty moan.

It doesn’t take long for the first orgasm to take you, his movements are precise and his words and actions have made you hornier than you’ve ever experienced. Or maybe it's because he is the hottest person you’ve ever laid eyes on and he only wants you.

When you’re finished and sensitive he dips his tongue into your hole to taste you and groans loudly, lapping up the wetness from your orgasm. "Better than I've dreamed of," he says when he pulls away. Now you’re the one that must be high because you can't help but giggle. "You seriously dream of me?" "All the time, doll. Every night when I go to bed I wish you were with me and then you plague my sleep with your soft curves and radiant smile."

You're about to tell him how his laugh makes you warm and fuzzy on the inside but at that moment he sucks your clit into his mouth, cutting out every thought in your brain. He's gentle but not hesitant, it's as if he's feeling you out and when you make a particularly loud sound he continues the same movement, making your whole body go hot.

The second orgasm is intense enough to send aftershocks through for a long while afterward. Bucky lays his head on your thigh as you tremble, caressing your skin and letting the fingers of his right hand skim over your opening.

Despite what he's already given you, you still crave more. His fingertips never come close to where you need them and when you whine at the back of your throat Bucky smiles up at you. "Don't worry, I'm not even close to done with you, but I don't want you to pass out on me.” One of his fingers glides inside, making you take a sharp breath just because it feels so good. Once again he is careful, moving slowly, listening to your breath and your body.

"Please Bucky, I need more.” "No need to beg, I'll give you everything you want… in time," he breathes and kisses the skin on the inside of your thigh. Slowly he moves his finger in and out. You're sure it's a form of torture. The sweetest kind there is. Your breathing is labored and when he finally adds a second, you start to quiver.

He nips at your skin and then kisses it before speaking. "You look like a goddess, doll, eyes filled with lust, your skin is gleaming. I'm going to worship you until you're tired of me.” "Never gonna happen," you whimper. Then his thumb lands on your clit, making you cry out. Everything is so sensitive and overstimulated.

"I don't- Bucky, I don't think I can again," you tell him even though his touches are causing your insides to melt. "Yes, you will," his voice is soft but the command is clear. So instead of trying to speak again, you sink further into the madness that is him playing with you. The third one takes its sweet time but you never feel rushed or stressed that it's taking too long. Bucky isn’t in a hurry.

Then it’s suddenly there, crashing through you. "Fuck Bucky, fuck you're gonna make me come." "So good for me, let me feel you come on my fingers," he urges. "I'm going to lick them clean afterward so make sure you get them nice and wet for me. I want as much as you'll give me." The climax reaches its peak and you come with a cry of his name, body convulsing and your hand shooting down to tangle in his hair.

"Just like that doll," he smiles up at you and holds your gaze when he pulls out his fingers and sucks them clean, moaning while he does. It's a filthy sound, but it turns you on as if he didn't just make you come for the third time. Then he dives in between your legs again, licking at your skin and your soaked hole. Letting go of his hair all you can do is just lie there, writhing, as he somehow coaxes a fourth orgasm out of you.

“Fuck me,” you plead when he pulls back. “I need you inside me Bucky.” This time he takes pity on you and moves away to take off his clothes. When he’s naked he kneels between your legs again and you spread them as wide as you can. "Want me, doll?" he asks with a smirk. He swipes his cock through your mess and then uses his hand to coat himself with you. "Yes," is all you can say. Both you and Bucky stare as he pushes his dick into you, filling you up completely. Of course, he takes it torturously slow this time too.

"This feels better than any dream I've ever had," he whispers almost in awe. You grip his biceps and arch into him, pushing him deeper, faster. That makes him tsk but smiles at the same time as he pushes the rest of the way, finally seating himself. Without giving you a chance to relax he starts fucking you, his cock pushes perfectly against your insides, pulling sounds from you that you haven't made in years.

He sits back on his heels lifting your ass effortlessly until your weight is resting on your shoulders and neck. It's like he is in a trance, pulling you onto his cock over and over again. Your body is his, your mind has fled, and all you see and feel is just him all around you. His eyes keep changing between his dick filling your cunt, your bouncing tits, and your half-lit eyes as if he is not sure where to look. "Mine," he rasps and thrusts hard to empathize the word. "All mine. Say it."

It takes some time for your brain to connect to your mouth and form the words but his gaze never leaves you. "Yours," you whimper. "I'm yours, Bucky." There is a familiar heat low in your belly that's steadily spreading through your limbs. It makes you wiggle and move because it's overwhelming. He is overwhelming in the best sense. Whining you reach down to rub yourself but he slaps your hand away. "I thought I told you, it's mine. I own this cunt. If you wanna touch yourself you have to ask permission." It's as close to a growl as is humanly possible and you don't understand how he can be so cognizant right now, because your brain is like putty. "Can I please rub my clit Bucky, I wanna come on your cock so bad," you cry.

"Good girl," he praises, and when he calls you that, your mouth falls open with a keening sound, gripping the sheets even harder, pulling at them because you want to come so bad. "Do it, show me how you get off when you're alone in bed without me." Everything is slippery and sensitive when you start with your fingers and you immediately know it's going to go fast. With his previous words in mind, you ask. "Can I come?" He meets your eyes with a wicked smile. "Fast learner. Yeah, you can come… when I tell you."

You rip your hand away, afraid you might fall over the edge at any second. The sound out of your throat is almost a sob. "Don't be like that, doll, I thought you said you couldn't do it more times?" "I can-I can! As many times as you want just please let me come." "Fuck, I like it when you beg with my cock in you." But he doesn't say anything else, just continues fucking you. He's not even winded while you're straining your entire body. Your hand wants to move back, anything to relieve the pressure inside you but Bucky was very clear and you don’t want to disobey him.

Then he pulls out and drops you onto the bed, but you don't get to relax because he flips you onto your stomach and pushes one of your knees up to the side before he presses in. His dick hits your G-spot dead on and you scream into the pillow under you. Bucky chuckles right by your ear. "Guess I found it." He's merciless, his hips hit your ass hard and if it weren't for his weight pressing you down you would soon hit the headboard.

"Bucky!" you wail because it's too much. You're losing the last pieces of your mind to the sheer force of the pleasure and you're scared you're never going to be able to come back to yourself. Then his hand presses in between you and the mattress. "Rub yourself on my fingers, make yourself cum. Fuck my cock and come all over me doll." You brace yourself as best you can and move your hips as he keeps almost completely still, just shallow thrusts in stark comparison to what he was doing to you just moments ago.

His fingers slide along your clit, his cock brushing your G-spot over and over again. You're breathless, sweat breaking out along your skin, but the climax you're chasing will be well worth it. You just know it.

"I can't fill you up until I’ve felt you come around me," he grunts, his voice tight with holding back. You whimper, the feeling of fire flushing your whole body, and building up to an eruption like no other. "Yes, yes, yes," he chants low in your ear. "That's it, come for me, make me proud. Fuck it feels so good." And he starts moving again "I'm going to fill you fucking full of my cum. That's it!"

The heat in you breaks and you come with a shout of his name, shaking under him. It gets even more intense when Bucky finishes right behind you, groaning your name. He collapses on top of you but his hips are still moving, slowly, as if he doesn’t want it to ever end. Neither would you but your body is wrecked.

When he finally rolls off, you're so close to falling asleep, but he picks you up and carries you to the bathroom. "Pee." He points and you want to tell him that you know the drill, this isn't your first time, but all that comes out is a grumble before he closes the door behind him and you sit down on the toilet.

When you're done, you stumble out and have a moment of panic, thinking he left. But then the door opens and Bucky returns with two bottles of water, handing you one before leading you to the bed and sitting you down on the edge. Gratefully you drink and lean against his shoulder before asking. "How do you feel?" "Better than I have in a long time," he answers, kissing your forehead. You chuckle. "Yeah I have a magical pussy, it can cure anything," you joke and it makes him laugh. "You should get back to quarantine," you comment. "Before anyone notices." He shakes his head. "No I'm staying here, I'm never leaving you again." He takes the bottle from your hand and places it on the bedside table together with his own. Then he crawls beneath the sheets and you go after him, letting him envelop you in a tight embrace before you fall asleep.

Alarms blare and you wake with a start. "FRIDAY what's going on?" you ask out into the room. “Sergeant Barnes has escaped his confinement.” The voice echoes through the room. You sigh and glare at Bucky grumbling beside you, like the loud signal is just a regular alarm clock. "FRIDAY please inform the team that Bucky is here and everything is fine."

A second later the sound dies and with a sigh you get up to pull on yesterday's discarded t-shirt and find a pair of pants. Right when you're done there is a knock on the door and Steve asks, "Everything okay in there?" You open the door enough to show yourself. "We're fine, he broke out during the night and came here." "Oh," Steve says and there is a hint of blush on his cheeks.

Then you feel a presence behind you and Bucky’s arm goes around your waist. "Mine," he says and you can't see him but he's probably glaring daggers at Steve who backs away. "We'll be okay, I'll alert FRIDAY if I need help," you tell Steve. When you close the door Bucky turns you before pushing you up against it and kissing you hard. "Mine," he mumbles against your lips. "Fucking caveman," you tell him. He grabs you around the waist and throws you over his shoulder. "I'll show you caveman," he says and carries you to the bed

[snail-day]

Haze

Sum: Epilogue to Hysteria

Yan!SatoSugu x Reader

WC: 13k (I deeply apologize)

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Reader Dies, Suicide, Improper use of medication, Medical AU, Noncon, Infantalization, Miscarriage, Narcotics, Captivity, Forced Relationship, Reader is going through it, MDNI, ANGST. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

A/n: thank you @pink-cakes-and-treats for listening to me ramble about my thoughts about this so much, also for the rest of you that asked for a good ending...here it is.

The world felt too big. The lights, too bright. The bed beneath you, too vast, swallowing you whole. Falling down a well—like Alice tumbling into the unknown—yet instead of cold air slicing past, warmth enveloped every inch, layers of soft blankets cocooned you in a thick comfort that verged on suffocation. Yet, beneath it all, something in your mind felt irrevocably wrong.

As if your mind was drowning in an ocean of disorientated static. 

The kind that crinkles and crackles like an old television screen, sizzling along the edges of your skull, humming against your bones in waves of distant white noise. Thoughts tried to rise, tried to form, but they slipped too easily through the curves of your mind - dripping down, vanishing into the untethered abyss of memories that refused to take shape.

Nothing was sticking. It hadn’t for the past few days. Nothing made sense. Blinking felt laborious, each movement sluggish, your lashes weighed down as sterile overhead lights glared harshly, searing your retinas with their artificial glow. You tried to focus, but the world refused to stay still—softening, sharpening, then blurring again—flickering in and out like the remnants of a half-forgotten dream.

Something was wrong.

Your limbs refused to obey, heavy and unresponsive, as if they no longer belonged to you. A dull, insistent pressure pressed into your temples, pulsing in time with the faint, rhythmic beep... beep... beep of a nearby monitor.

Where… are you?

Your mind scrambled, clawing through the fog, reaching for something—anything—solid. But all it found was emptiness. A hollow absence where something important should be.

A scream echoed in the distance.

No, not a sound. Not a noise.

A feeling.

A desperate, clawing, silent terror digging its fingers into your ribs, shaking you, demanding that you - 

Wake up.

Nothing answered.

The panic, slow and insidious, seeped in, curling its fingers around your throat. Your pulse quickened, your breath hitched - your body recognized the fear before your mind could. You knew something was wrong. Something inside you knew.

You tried to shift, but your muscles refused to cooperate. A dull ripple of discomfort ran through you, a sluggish protest of aching limbs and numb skin - Fingers tightened around your hand.

The sensation shot through you like an electric shock, sharp and immediate. Heat pressed against your palm, the unmistakable warmth of lips brushing over your skin in something gentle - something aching.

You forced your head to turn, each movement sluggish, uncoordinated - like swimming through molasses. The world lagged behind, colors smearing at the edges of your vision until, finally, your gaze settled on— White hair. Snow-bright. Almost glowing beneath the sterile fluorescent lights, like some ethereal specter - an angel poised between salvation and sorrow.

Were you dead?

For a moment, the thought lingered. A part of you almost wished it were true. Anything to quiet the thing inside you - the thing that clawed at your ribs, wove its fingers through your veins, coiling tighter with every shallow breath. A restless, insatiable presence, scratching against your heartstrings, whispering in a voice you couldn’t quite decipher.

Anxious. Begging.

Something was trying to break free.

And then - blue. Eyes like a summer sky far too brilliant, too sharp, slicing through the haze searching your face for answers, longing. 

Satoru.

Your best friend.

But something was wrong.

His eyes, why were they red? Had he been crying?

A flicker of confusion stirred in your chest, Satoru didn’t cry. Satoru would grin, laugh, and tease. Satoru was the playful, loveable one, yet he was watching you, unmoving, the grip on your hand tight. His long, pale fingers trembled. Soft pink lips moved, forming words too soft to reach you, soundless incantations spilling from his mouth - A prayer or perhaps even a curse. Just barely, like a breath stolen by the wind, a name fell from his lips.

"Suguru."

The name slipped through the air, familiar yet somehow distant.

Suguru?

Ah, your husband. Warmth unfurled in your chest, small and fragile, like the dying embers of a long-burning fire. Satoru and Suguru - best friends since forever. If Satoru was here, then Suguru must be too. Right?

Suguru. Your Suguru. Sweet, kindhearted, safe.

But something inside you—that thing, that restless, clawing monster curled deep beneath your ribs—shrieked. A wrongness slithered through your thoughts. A dissonance, like a note played off-key, as if looking at a picture you knew should be whole but seeing only fractures. Your mind reached for him, for the feeling of him, the strength in those steady hands of his. A memory struggled to surface, rising through the fog breaching the suffice as the drowning thing it was grasping for air.

Documents. A trembling hand. Ink smudged against paper. Fingers curled too tightly around a pen.

The monster inside you thrashed.

Then…softness.

A smile, small and instinctual, formed before you even understood why.

Oh. Right.

Your marriage license.

So why did something in you still scream?

You had been so nervous that day. Your hands had trembled so badly that Suguru had to cover them with his own, guiding your fingers across the paper. Helping you sign because you couldn’t stop shaking. So why did the memory feel like it was slipping through your grasp like something was missing or wrong?

"Hey, princess"

Satoru’s voice rang as it pulled you back to the present, light and teasing, laced with an unsteady waver in each trembling word. His grin—boyish, familiar—was wobbly at the edges as he pressed the back of his hand to your forehead.

Why wouldn’t this feeling go away?

This dread. This creature inside you burning so brightly. 

"Sa-toru," your voice rasped. The syllables felt wrong in your mouth, tongue sluggish as it rolled through the vowels, throat too dry choking on every sound. Words weren’t coming out the way they should.

Why weren’t things working?

Why did everything feel wrong?

Satoru clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he rested his chin in his palm.

"Y’know, princess, you had me worried there. I was this close to calling it - figured you were done for, gonna leave me stuck with him for the rest of my life."

An exaggerated pout lined his lips that did little to mask the way his fingers twitched. You blinked at him, the words slow to process. The fog in your mind hadn’t lifted, not really, but something about his presence felt safe, reliable, a lighthouse in this haze.

"Sa-toru," you rasped again, the name tasting foreign in your mouth. His teasing grin twitched, faltered for just a second before he leaned in closer, his bright blue eyes flickering over your face like he was mapping out every change, every shift in your expression.

"That’s me, sweetheart," he said smoothly, flashing you a grin as if he wasn’t completely unraveling inside. "Figured you’d miss me first - ‘course you would, I’m your favorite, right?"

Something about that didn’t feel right. Not wrong, exactly, but something tugged at you, something missing, something empty.

Wake up. That voice, those claws continued deep inside you. Scratching, crawling to the surface just to plummet back down to the abyss.  You frowned, trying to focus, the ache in your skull pulsed harder, pushing your thoughts back down before you could grasp them. Satoru exhaled, watching you struggle, and his smile softened just slightly.

"Okay, let’s run some tests, yeah?" he murmured, voice dropping into something more careful, more measured. But then, like a switch, his teasing lilt returned, masking that fear rescinding inside himself. "Don’t worry, princess, this is just to make sure your brain didn’t completely short-circuit. Wouldn’t want you drooling on yourself just yet."

You scowled, the reaction automatic, and Satoru’s grin widened like he’d just won something.

"Oh? Look at that! Someone’s still got some bite in ‘em," he mused, his thumb lazily stroking the back of your hand. "Maybe you didn’t fry up there after all."

Your scowl deepened, and the corners of his mouth twitched. His bedside manners truly needed some work. 

"Alright, first test, nice and easy," he said, holding up two fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

You stared. It should’ve been simple. Easy. 

But the answer didn’t come.

Your head throbbed, thoughts slipping like water through your fingers, the shape of numbers nothing but static in your mind. The more you tried to force the answer, the further it slipped, like trying to remember a dream the second you wake up.

Your breathing hitched. Your stomach turned.

"I—" The syllable barely escaped, weak, unsure.

Satoru didn’t move, didn’t rush you, just hummed under his breath, as if he had already expected this.

"No biggie, don’t stress it," he said, waving his fingers dismissively. "It’s not like I needed you to count anyway. I can do that all by myself."

The teasing should’ve been annoying. Instead, it kept the panic from swallowing you whole. Kept that beast inside you from crawling through your throat. Kept the tears at bay. 

"Let’s try something else," he continued smoothly. He tapped a finger against his chin, pretending to think, then pointed at you with a smirk. "What’s your name?"

A simple question. The simplest of all.

But nothing came.

The realization hit you like ice water, a slow, creeping horror climbing up your spine.

Your mouth parted, but no words formed.

You knew you had a name—you should know it—but it was like trying to grasp smoke. It slipped through your fingers and refused to stick. Your lips trembled, breath catching in your throat.

Satoru saw it.

And for the first time, his expression truly faltered.

The smirk faded.

The playful gleam in his eyes dulled, just slightly. His long, pale fingers tightened ever so slightly around yours before he clicked his tongue, releasing your hand, and leaned back, stretching his arms over his head as none of this bothered him in the slightest.

"Wow. You really did a number on yourself, huh? Forgetting your name? Tsk, tsk, princess." He let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "Guess I’ll have to give you a new one."

You stared at him, heart still hammering, but his words pulled you just enough from the sinking pit of panic.

"Ooooh, how about ‘Dumpling’? No, wait—Sunshine—nah, too generic." He tapped his chin in mock thought. "Oh! I know - ‘Satoru’s Favorite Person in the Whole Wide World.’ Bit of a mouthful, but you’ll get used to it."

Despite the terror twisting in your chest, something about his voice -ridiculous, insufferable voice - kept you from spiraling completely.

"What about Suguru?"

The question was quieter. Measured. Satoru’s teasing lilt softened, but his gaze didn’t leave your face. The name struck something inside you, something distant, something deep. Suguru. Your husband. Your sweet, kindhearted husband. And like a memory from another lifetime, you saw him—Suguru’s hands over yours. Suguru whispering against your temple. Suguru’s voice, warm and fond, calling you—

"Of course," you murmured, a small smile ghosting your lips. "Suguru… he’s my husband."

For a second, the room felt too still.

Satoru didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then, with a slow exhale, he slumped forward, forehead pressing against the blankets beside your hand.

"Shit," he whispered, voice muffled.

You blinked at him, confused.

"What’s wrong?"

He shook his head against the various plush blankets, a groan escaping his lips as he burrowed his face deeper into the sheets. 

"Nothing," he muttered. "You remembered Suguru. That’s… good."

His fingers curled into the sheets, gripping them tightly, his shoulders stiff. Then, just as quickly, he snapped back up, plastering a lopsided grin on his face like he wasn’t just falling apart a second ago.

"Well, that settles it. You’re half-broken, but we’ll work with what we’ve got." He reached over and flicked your forehead - lightly, but enough to make your brow furrow. "I’ll go get Suguru. Pretty sure he’ll be happy you didn’t wake up hating his guts."

Something about the way he said it felt wrong.

But you didn’t get the chance to ask, because Satoru was already standing, stretching dramatically before turning toward the door. Before he stepped out, his voice dropped to something almost too soft to hear.

"Suguru better be right about this."

And then he was gone. The room felt different without him. Too still, too empty. The kind of silence that settled under your skin, stretched itself thin over your ribs, pressing into your lungs. Satoru was gone for what felt like forever. Time moved strangely, warping at the edges as you lay there, staring at the IV in your arm, the slow drip of liquid pooling into your veins. The steady tick of the clock anchored you, but barely. Each second bled into the next, a sluggish, drawn-out eternity. You tried closing your eyes, hoping that would at least calm the unease curling in your chest. Instead, the moment your lids shut, scorches of bright light flashed behind them, too sharp, too sudden, forcing you to snap them open again.

A headache threatened to bloom, but something else lingered beneath it.

A feeling.

The faintest echo of something soft - a kiss pressed to your forehead, warm, familiar. Muscle memory, perhaps. A habit long-engrained, something your body recognized even when your mind couldn’t.

You turned your head slightly, catching sight of the mirror on the far side of the room.

That was… you.

Your reflection blinked back at you, dazed and uncertain. Recognition flickered, though it felt distant, like staring at a childhood home you hadn't visited in years.

At least you knew yourself. That had to mean something.

A soft exhale escaped your lips, burrowing deeper into the blankets, allowing the warmth to cocoon you. Suguru would be here soon. He would make everything better. He always did. And Satoru…

Satoru was a good friend.

You let your gaze drift to the ceiling, counting the tiny, glowing stars plastered there. Numbers didn’t come easily, slipping from your grasp the same way your name had earlier, but you kept looking anyway, following each little dot of light like it might steady the tremor beneath your ribs.

Outside, voices broke the stillness.

Muffled, tense.

The walls weren’t thick enough to block them out completely, though the words slipped in and out, only fragments reaching you.

"You said - "

"—not how it was supposed to go—"

"Things aren’t okay - "

Something about the tone sent a shiver crawling up your spine. That monster deep inside you sank into the abyss once more. As if the conversation, it recognized, recognized more things than you did. 

The door creaked open, and there stood Suguru.

Another wave of warmth spread through your chest, comforting and safe, even as something deep inside you—a creature you couldn't name—trembled in fear. You could almost hear it, a faint, howling whisper buried beneath the haze of your thoughts, clawing at your ribs as if warning you of something you couldn’t remember.

But Suguru’s presence made you feel safe.

Suguru had always been your safe place. 

Hadn’t he? Still, something was… off. Not because of the quiet, caged thing inside you, not because of some nameless fear pressing against the back of your mind.

No—Suguru.

He stood there, unmoving, his violet eyes flickering between something unreadable and something that looked dangerously close to relief. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, like he had been holding it in for years.

Like he hadn’t seen you in years.

But… you had seen him.

Hadn’t you?

When was the last time?

The question fluttered through your thoughts, weightless and empty, and yet, before you could grasp it, it was gone, slipping through your fingers like water.

After what felt like an eternity—though time had started to feel strange, stretched and warped—his shoulders dropped. The tension in his frame melted away, his entire body sagging, the rigid set of his jaw loosening just slightly.

And then he moved.

Slow steps carried him to your bedside, where you lay wrapped in layers of soft, warm blankets.

"Angel," he breathed.

His voice cracked.

Something in your chest lurched at the sound.

You shifted, instinctively trying to sit up, but the IV in your arm tugged, the discomfort sharp enough to make your breath stutter.

And suddenly—he was there.

Fast. Too fast. One hand curled around your arm, firm but careful, the other settling on your back, steadying you before you could even sway. His grip was secure, protective, possessive a cocktail of something you couldn’t place in that haze of your mind as the abyss swirled with his touch-  his touch that sent something warm and sweet through you, like a childhood memory of being tucked into bed on a stormy night, soft whispers and gentle reassurances lulling you to sleep.

"Take it easy," he soothed, his voice dipped in honey, smooth and low. Suguru’s hands adjusted, shifting just slightly but never letting go, steadying you in a way that felt like he would never let you fall. He was close now, too close, his body angled toward yours in a way that blocked out the rest of the room. Like nothing beyond this—beyond you—mattered.

Had it ever? Your eyes flickered up, searching his face, your gaze tracing over the deep bags beneath his eyes, the tight line of his jaw, the way his knuckles were white where he gripped the sheets.

How long had he been here?

"How are you feeling?" His voice— gentle, tender—but there was something in it, something that made your heart stumble. You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to sort through your scattered thoughts, sluggish and slow-moving.

"Weird."

Suguru let out a soft exhale—something dangerously close to a laugh—but it was shaky, unsteady, as if the sound was unraveling at the edges. Like he was barely keeping himself together. His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, slow and rhythmic, back and forth, back and forth, as if memorizing the shape of it.

"That’s okay," he murmured, voice like silk, voice like love. His eyes, impossibly soft, and devoted, never once strayed from yours.

"You’re still waking up. Just take your time, angel. I’m right here."

His patience felt endless.

Hadn’t he always been like this?

Always patient, always yours?

Suguru's hand tightened around your wrist, his grip not bruising, but firm, like he needed the contact like he needed to feel you to believe you were still here. His voice was barely more than a whisper, trembling at the edges.

"I was so scared," he breathed.

You blinked up at him, caught in the sheer weight of his words.

"Scared?"

Suguru exhaled slowly, shakily. His fingers loosened just enough to lift your hand to his lips. The kiss he pressed there was soft, lingering, his breath ghosting over your skin like a prayer, like he was worshipping you like he was pleading.

"God, angel," he murmured, his eyes fluttering shut, "you don’t know how close I was to losing you."

Your heart stumbled.

"Losing me?" The words felt foreign on your tongue, heavy with confusion.

Suguru nodded, his grip tightening again as his violet eyes flickered open, searching yours, as if he was willing you to remember, to understand.

"You don’t remember, do you?"

Your breath caught in your throat. You did your best to remember - tried to grasp at the scattered pieces in your mind, but they slipped away, crumbling to dust before you could hold onto anything solid. There was something there, something lingering at the edges of your consciousness, but no matter how hard you reached, it refused to take shape.

Suguru saw it—the way you struggled, the way you faltered—and something in his face broke. His lips parted, his expression shattering into something raw and aching.

"You tried to leave me."

A chill slithered down your spine.

"W-what?"

Suguru swallowed hard. His hands trembled. "The pills," he whispered, voice thick, pained. Those thick large fingers of his curled around yours, holding tighter, like if he let go, you’d slip away again. "You, angel, you tried to overdose. We almost lost you."

Your body went still.

The words didn’t fit.

They didn’t belong.

Would you…?

Could you…?

Suguru let out another slow, shaky exhale, his forehead dipping forward until it rested against your temple. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into him, his warmth engulfing you completely.

"Why didn’t you tell me you were hurting so much?" he whispered, voice cracking under the weight of it.

He sounded wrecked.

Like you had broken him.

His breath was warm against your skin, his arms unmovable, his body curled around yours as if he could shield you from something neither of you could name. Your lips parted, but no words came.

Nothing.

Just blank spaces where memories should be. You felt empty, a hollow shell carved out by something you didn’t remember.

"I—" You tried, but the words dissolved before they could form.

Suguru didn’t let go.

For what felt like an eternity, he just held you, his breath slow, measured, as if forcing himself to stay calm. As if keeping himself from falling apart completely. When he finally pulled back, his hands cradled your face, thumbs stroking over your cheekbones in slow, gentle motions. His violet eyes burned with something deep, something fierce, something terrifyingly devoted. "But it’s okay now," he whispered, "because I’m here. I’m always going to be here." His voice was steady, "You’re safe, angel. I won’t let anything happen to you ever again."

His gaze bore into you, worshipped you.

"You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I’ll take care of everything, just like I always have."

And hadn’t he?

Hadn’t Suguru always taken care of you?

Hadn’t he always put you first?

Hadn’t he always loved you more than anything?

an ache in your chest arose as your mind filled with a foggy, static mess, but Suguru’s hands were warm, his lips soft as he pressed another kiss to your forehead, lingering there, breathing you in.

"I love you so much," he whispered, the words breaking against your skin.

A few weeks passed before your release. There had been a lot of physical therapy, a lot of sessions where doctors asked you questions that felt like puzzles you couldn��t quite piece together. A lot of memories blurred at the edges, details slipping into the haze that seemed to return at odd moments, as if your mind was deliberately keeping things just out of reach.

But you weren’t worried.

Because you had Suguru.

And Suguru always took care of you.

It helped that the hospital belonged to him—or at least, that’s what you gathered. Suguru worked here, of course he did, and with Satoru’s family organization owning and operating the place, it meant you were given special treatment.

For being his favorite girl.

For being their favorite girl.

You spent most of your days with Satoru. He liked to keep you company in the common room, always finding ways to make you laugh, always draping himself over you as if the weight of his presence alone could keep you somewhat sane.

It was never crowded here.

In fact…

There weren’t any other patients. It was something you had noticed a while ago but had never questioned.

Maybe you should have.

But why would you?

Suguru said the quiet was good for your recovery - Suguru always knew best.

So, instead, you sat cross-legged at the small table in the sunlit common room, a coloring book open in front of you, half-finished pages of soft, delicate flowers filling the space. Satoru sat beside you, elbow resting on the table as he lazily twirled a crayon between his fingers, the light from the window casting a golden hue over his white hair. You looked up at him, a bright smile tugging at your lips. The words came out soft, still feeling a little foreign on your tongue.

"I drew purple flowers. What color did you do?"

Satoru’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second. It was quick, so quick you almost didn’t notice.  A small inhale, barely audible, his fingers tightening slightly around the half-yellow crayon in his hand.

"Mmm," he hummed after a pause, looking down at his page, "I was gonna make you daisies." His voice was light, casual, that boyish grin sliding back into place, but something about it felt off.

His eyes - that same sparkling blue that had always been so bright, so mischievous, looked just a little duller than before. And then, before you could dwell on it, Satoru shifted, draping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close like he always did, like it was easy.

"I was thinking about making some stars or cranes for Suguru," you mused, flipping the crayon between your fingers. "He’s been asking for stuff! You know, when we were together, I used to handmake him things. Guess he misses it!"

You laughed, soft, cheerful, letting the warmth of nostalgia curl around your words like a fond memory.

Satoru didn’t laugh.

You caught the way his expression twitched. His bright eyes dimmed again, the usual teasing remark he would have had on his tongue never coming. Instead, his grip around you tightened just slightly, fingers curling where they rested on your arm.

That quiet thing inside you—the one that had been utterly still these past few weeks—shifted.

Like déjà vu.

Like something on the edge of remembrance.

Like something that wasn’t right.

Satoru was too quiet.

And deep inside you—somewhere distant, somewhere buried—the monster inside you howled.

At first, you had been confused.

You don’t remember falling asleep. One moment, you were coloring—soft petals filling the page, Satoru’s voice teasing at your ear. Then, darkness. Not sleep, not quite, but a gap, a missing frame between memories. And now - movement. The slow, rolling sensation beneath you. The low hum of tires against pavement. The world around you felt wrong, stretched and distorted at the edges, like waking

You weren’t sure if you were moving or if the world itself was folding around you.

No, think.

You had to think - you can’t lose your marbles yet. Something felt off, but your thoughts were molasses-thick, sluggish, slipping away before you could catch them. You forced your eyes open. The brightness stung. The world blurred and wavered, swimming between sharpness and distortion, colors smearing together like wet paint. Everything felt slow, too slow, like time itself was stretched thin. Shapes surrounded you, unfamiliar, shifting. Your mind reached for something familiar, something solid, but the haze wrapped around you like a noose, muffling every sensation. Choking out every sensation. 

Something pressed against your cheek—warmth. A body beside you.

It was familiar.

Reassuring, perhaps. A slow, curling unease rippled through you, too faint to grasp, too distant to matter. You blinked, the action feeling thick and heavy, like your eyelids had been weighted down. A figure hovered above you—dark hair, neatly tied. Lips moving, speaking, but the words were empty, soundless, lost in the static humming at the edges of your consciousness.

You could hear them.

But you couldn’t understand them.

The words dissolved before they could take shape, vanishing into the white noise fizzing along the surface of your thoughts.

Something was wrong.

The realization wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t a sudden spike of awareness, but a dull, sinking weight settling in your stomach, curling through your limbs. Like a shadow stretching across the floor, creeping slowly, methodically, until it swallowed everything. Your gaze drifted sideways, slow, disconnected. There was another presence beside you, a hand resting on your thigh. Your vision wavered, struggling to focus. White hair. A shape, a figure—Satoru?

That wasn’t right.

His touch felt off.

It didn’t belong there. It wasn’t familiar.

If it were Suguru’s, that would be familiar. Suguru is your—

Your what? The word was there, just for a second. Bright and fleeting, flickering at the edges of your mind, a puzzle piece slipping into place—and then it was gone. A void swallowed it whole. Your mind reached for it, frantic and desperate, but it was missing, ripped away, replaced with nothing but static.

The car rumbled on, steady, unwavering.

Right.

You were in a car.

Going… where?

You tried to part your lips, force the sound from your throat, but nothing came. Not silence—something worse—deep, dragging inability, like your voice had been stolen, like your body was no longer yours to command.

You felt wrong.

Heavy. Detached. Like your limbs weren’t really connected to you, as the space between thought and action had stretched too far. Every movement, even the simple act of breathing, felt slow, distant, and delayed. Something sharp flashed behind your eyes—white light, searing, electric. A crackling hum, a sharp sting like a wire had been pressed too deep beneath your skin. The darkness inside you curled inward, folding in on itself. It whimpered now, weak, small, drowning beneath the weight of something you didn’t understand.

Something was wrong.

You felt it pressing at the back of your skull, something deep and instinctive, something your body recognized even if your mind couldn’t. The fabric against your skin was soft. Loose. Suguru’s sweatpants. That much, at least, felt real. Your eyes dragged toward Satoru again. It took forever, like pushing through water, like forcing yourself to move through a world that didn’t want to stay still.

He was angled toward the window, head tilted white hair in his eyes, chin propped against his palm. The dim glow of passing streetlights flickered over his features, illuminating sharp edges, smooth planes. His mouth was pressed into a thin line. The slight downturn at the corners. The tension in his jaw.

A part of you recognized that expression.

Satoru didn’t look like that.

Satoru never looked like that.

You tried again—tried to speak, tried to force sound past the heavy, sluggish frog clogging your throat. But it was like pushing through a swamp, murky, like something thick and invisible was holding you down, keeping you tethered to this slow, sinking feeling.

A shallow breath. A shudder. Nothing else.

Satoru shifted beside you.

The warmth that had been resting on your thigh vanished, leaving behind a stark absence that made your skin prickle. Then, a new sensation—a whisper of contact against your wrist. Soft at first, an idle graze, barely there. Then firmer, more pressing, the measuring. Counting the beats beneath his fingertips.

Checking your pulse.

Your gaze dragged to his, sluggish but instinctual. Bright against the fog in your head, slicing through the murk with a clarity that made you recoil. Those eyes—striking, endless, impossibly blue—brought something with them, a pull deep in your brain, in your bones. Flashes of something disjointed. Overhead lighting, stark and sterile. A buzz—constant, droning, mechanical. His expression didn’t change, but something in his posture did. A flicker in his gaze, a fraction of a second where his mask slipped—searching, analyzing, calculating. A slow inhale. A barely-there pause.

The realization sank, you weren’t supposed to be awake. Satoru exhaled, his fingers tapped against your wrist, a rhythm so light, so absentminded, it felt like an old habit. The soft tap, tap, tap sent a ripple through your thoughts, a whisper of familiarity threading through the fog. Then—static. A flare, sharp and electric, ripping through the void inside you. White light. A hum, low and droning. Something pressing into your skull, sinking too deep.

Your breath hitched.

Satoru’s lips parted. A breath of sound escaped, “…Shit.”

Suguru heard it. “Oh, angel.” a voice that had wrapped around you like silk, warm and syrup-sweet, sinking into your skin. A hand, cupped your cheek, his thumb gliding over your skin in slow, coaxing strokes. Guiding. Directing. You barely registered the way he tilted your face up, drawing your gaze away from Satoru, steering you toward him with gentle reverence. Like something fragile. Something breakable. Something his or perhaps theirs. 

“You should be asleep,” he murmured, “We gave you some pain meds. You’ve been having a lot of nightmares lately.”

We. The word landed strangely in your mind. Heavy. Foreign. Wrong. Something about it didn’t fit. But your thoughts—sluggish, slippery—melted away before you could pin them down. Questions clawed at your throat, stacking one on top of the other, pressing against the hollowness where memories should be. But when you tried to speak, when you forced your lips to move—nothing.

No sound. No words.

Just a thin, reedy whisper of breath.

Your tongue felt thick, your mouth unfamiliar—like the very mechanics of speech had become foreign to you. You tried again—lips parting, searching for something solid, something tangible, something that made sense. You weren’t losing your mind. You weren’t insane.

You were just lost. It’s key to remind yourself of that. 

“…House?” A whisper. Soft and unfamiliar, a voice that slipped past your lips, fragile and meek, and yet—not yours. You weren’t this. No, you weren’t small, you weren’t delicate, you weren’t some flower that needed to be tended. 

So how dare this weak, trembling voice speak for you? That wasn’t right. That wasn’t you.

The abyss inside you shuddered—howled—and then, it shrunk.

You wished you understood it. Wished you could unravel the creature clawing inside you, tearing at your ribs, gnawing at your insides. What did it want? What did it fear?

And why—why did it shrink before the two most familiar men in your life? It curled in on itself, retreating like a wounded animal. Pulling away, pressing deep into the spaces between your ribs, folding into the fog thickening in your mind.

Suguru’s thumb swept over your cheek again. Pulling you away from the insanity that was unraveling in your mind, What happened to you? Yet his calloused thumb pulled you away from that question as it swept against your bottom lip, those adoring violet eyes of his gazed down on you with so much devotion.  The motion melted into your skin, seeping through the haze in your head, sinking deep, spreading warmth like honey through your veins.

You knew these hands.

You trusted them.

You had always trusted them.

Had always belonged to them.

“There’s nothing to worry about, angel,” Suguru murmured, his voice velvet-lined and laced with something deeper—something patient, something final. It settled over you like a lullaby, thick and saccharine, wrapping around your ribs, lulling the resistance in your chest to stillness.

He sounded like home.

“Just relax.”

A pause.

“You’re safe now.”

His fingers curled just slightly against your cheek, “We’re almost home.” There it was again. That word.

We. His voice curled around it so easily, so naturally, as if it had always belonged. But it hadn’t, had it? Your thoughts tripped over themselves, scattered, slipping before they could form something solid. You felt like you had forgotten something crucial. Your head swayed slightly under his touch, too heavy, too slow. The warmth of his palm pressed into your cheek, spreading down your neck, keeping you there, still, held in place by nothing but gentle weight.

Suguru’s presence filled the space beside you. Even in the dim lighting of the car, even with the blur distorting your vision, you could still make out his dark, wavy hair, loosely tied at the nape of his neck, some strands falling over his face. Sharp features softened in shadow. Long lashes, lowered as he looked at you, the faint crease between his brows, the slow parting of his lips, his violet eyes—not as sharp as Satoru’s, but deep, unreadable.

His gaze held you.

His touch kept you from drifting too far.

However your brain had other ideas, other ideas of unraveling your mind, from stopping the buzzing of nerves, a name filtered into your mind. 

Satoru.

Satoru had his own apartment.

Didn’t he?

Yes. He did. He had his own space. He didn’t live with you. So why did the word we feel so wrong? Your breath came uneven, something shallow curling at the edges of your ribs.

A flicker of something.

Pills.

A hand.

Scattered.

The haze thickened. Your stomach twisted. A cold knowing pried its way through the murk.

You tried to kill yourself. Suguru’s voice echoed through the thick fog of your thoughts, from before. His words, his tone, the steady warmth of his arms around you. That conversation happened. You spoke fine before.

Why couldn’t you now?

Why did your voice feel different—smaller, softer? Why did you find yourself leaning into Suguru’s touch, chasing the warmth, seeking comfort in something you didn’t understand?

Because he was familiar.

Because in this fog, in this shapeless world where everything felt wrong, Suguru felt right.

No. Back on track.

Would you?

Could you?

Would you really—kill yourself?

That didn’t feel right.

That wasn’t you.

Was it?

Is that why Satoru…

You tried to speak. It took effort. A deep pull, like dredging words from the bottom of a thick, dark sea. Your lips trembled as they formed something weak, breathless.

“S-toru…”

Your mind lagged, struggling to find the words, the question tangling itself up inside you.

“…why?”

Suguru stilled for a moment. You felt the hesitation in him—the smallest shift in the way his thumb stopped moving, the subtle inhale, the pause in the space between you. His expression flickered—something uncertain ghosting across his face, but it was gone just as quickly as it appeared. Suguru was never uncertain. His violet eyes softened, the storm behind them calming, gentling, then, a slow, patient smile. His thumb resumed its path, tracing slow circles over your cheek, then down, grazing your bottom lip. A touch so tender it felt practiced.

“You gave him a fright,” Suguru murmured, his voice deep, warm, careful. A deliberate gentleness, like he was tending to a delicate flower—cultivating it, shaping it, waiting for the perfect moment to pluck it. To prepare it for the right occasion. Somehow, you knew that flower was you.

Except—you weren’t something sweet.

That wasn’t who you were.

Your voice, soft and honeyed, might have painted that illusion, but inside—inside, you were full of thorns. Sharp, unruly, aching to tear free, to dig into flesh, to remind the world that you were not meant to be handled.

Every slow stroke of his thumb against your skin unraveled them. One by one, the thorns dulled, softened, melted into something pliant. “He hasn’t been able to sleep in his apartment since you tried to…” A pause. His voice dipped lower, quieter as if saying the words aloud might wound him. You barely heard him anymore. Your thoughts had grown too loud.

Screaming.

Clawing against the buzz of burnt nerves—burnt? Why were they burnt?

Would you?

Would you kill yourself?

No.

That wasn’t you.

…Was it?

Suguru’s hand cradled your face, the pad of his thumb brushing over your temple.. His warmth sank into your skin, deeper than it should have—branding itself into you. Pressing. Holding. Binding. Safe.

Safe, safe, safe.

That’s what his touch said— what it promised.

And you let yourself sink.

You weren’t sure when you fell asleep.

Was it the warmth of Suguru’s hands, the soothing rhythm of his thumb against your cheek? Or was it the slight prick in your arm, so small, so fleeting, you barely noticed?

A needle.

That was… strange. What a weird thing to feel in a car. The thought barely had time to take shape before it melted away, lost to the pull of sleep—no, not sleep, something deeper, something heavier. Just before the darkness swallowed you whole, your gaze caught on a faint glimmer—a vial. The name surfaced immediately — a sedative. How would someone who could barely think straight know that?

But the thought was fleeting, slipping between your fingers as the world around you dissolved, your body weightless, your mind drifting— another memory.

Or perhaps a fraction of one.

A pink room. Soft pastels, warm light filtering through gauzy curtains. A large white box against the wall, waiting—empty. Something should be inside it, however the poor lonely white box was empty. On the floor, Suguru. A flashlight between his teeth, hands assembling something small, something delicate. Cubes of softwood, pastel-painted pieces are arranged in careful, meticulous stacks. His smile was easy, boyish, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looked up at you.

Love. Devotion. Excitement.

"You think she’ll like it?" his voice was muffled around the flashlight, words laced with tender amusement. You stood in the doorway, watching him. Something inside you felt full, heavy.

You glanced at the mirror beside you—rounder. Softer.

Heavier.

Ah… what’s the word?

The thought came slow, sluggish, dragging its way up from the depths of your mind, a word, you were ████████. The word couldn't come. It slipped just as the memory was. The warmth of the memory curled around you, a bittersweet thing, familiar but distant as if seen through the wrong end of a telescope.

The image shattered.

Pale blue tiles, slick beneath your feet. The air was cold, curling against your bare skin like a whisper, like breath on the back of your neck, haunting. The bathroom felt vast and empty, yet suffocating all at once, a space that stretched and closed in at the same time. The walls pulsed, the floor swayed. Something dripped.

Red flowers.

They bloomed in the cracks, unfurling across the tile, soaking into the grout, staining your fingers, smeared against your thighs. A deep ache coiled in your stomach, right where the flowers grew, sharp and pulling and wrong. You pressed your hand there, fingers slick, warm- your heartbeat pounded against your ribs, a frantic, uneven staccato as if your body was trying to tell you something your mind refused to grasp.

Oh.

Not flowers.

Your breath hitched, sharp and jagged, the sound barely registering over the heavy buzzing in your skull. Your chest ached, pulled tight like something was being wound inside you, twisting until it was about to snap. Your hands trembled, grasping at fabric—your dress, the sink, the air itself—nothing felt solid. Nothing felt real.

Light flickered. A glow in the corner of your eye.

Your phone - the screen pulsed, humming with an unfamiliar urgency, illuminating the dark edges of the room. A name. Suguru. It pulsed with every ring, like a heartbeat, like something alive, something waiting.

You needed to answer it.

You tried—your fingers barely moved, sluggish and detached, like they weren’t yours, like your body had forgotten how to listen. The world shifted. The tiles rippled. The walls breathed.

You didn’t like this.

You didn’t like this at all.

But the dream had other plans.

It dragged you deeper, a hand at your back, pushing you forward, forcing you to see, forcing you to remember. The bathroom dissolved, bled into something else, colors warping, space stretching, folding, cracking apart.

The red flowers—gone.

In their place, stacks of paper.

Crisp, white sheets, stretching endlessly before you, swallowing the room whole, consuming every surface. The ink bled through, black lines shifting, warping as you tried to read them, twisting into something unreadable, something suffocating.

Not just any paper.

Divorce papers.

Your name.

Suguru’s name.

Your signature, ink smudged, edges curling, the weight of the moment pressing down on you like a vice. A pen—shaking between your fingers, clutched so tightly it might snap in half. 

You wanted to—

Didn’t you?

You wanted to leave.

Didn’t you?

The ink ran. The pages blurred, the edges curling inward, folding like wilting petals, like burning paper, like something being erased. Water dripped down the sheets, or was it blood? A soft rustle—pages turning on their own, shifting, morphing, dissolving into something else entirely.

The crib.

The bathroom.

The blood.

The papers.

Everything tangled together, warped, spliced, replaying in fragments, flickering like an old film reel skipping frames. The images overlapped, twisting and unraveling before you could grab hold, slipping through your fingers like silk soaked in something dark.

Your body burned. Boiled. Feverish heat rolled through your veins, spreading, thick and searing, like something was crawling beneath your skin, like you were being rewritten from the inside out.

You tried to wake up.

You needed to wake up.

Your mind screamed against the weight pressing down on it, against the lie suffocating it, against the warmth wrapped around you, the warmth you didn’t trust, the warmth you had once loved.

You gasped.

The darkness shattered—splintering into a million aching shards as your body jolted, wrenching itself toward consciousness.

A voice.

Soft, distant, pulling at the edges of wakefulness.

It wasn’t unusual for Suguru to curl up beside you at night, his arms, his body warm and familiar. That was normal. That made sense. But Satoru? Satoru had never slept beside you before, had he? At least, you didn’t think so.

Then again, you didn’t trust your memories these days.

The first night he slipped beneath the covers with you and Suguru, you blinked up at him, confusion knitting your brows together. "Satoru?" His name had left your lips softly, almost hesitant. You remembered Suguru pulling you closer before Satoru could even answer, his grip tightening as if the question itself was something you shouldn’t be asking.

"Mmm?" Satoru’s grin had been lazy, his eyes tired, but there was something about the way he spoke, something forced, light. He ruffled your hair like he always did, fingers lingering against your scalp before he sighed. "Just keeping an eye on you, princess. You know I can’t let you out of my sight for too long—what if you run off on us again?"

Something in your chest twisted at his words, a faint unease curling around your ribs, but before you could ask what he meant, Suguru had hushed you with a slow, tender stroke of his fingers down your arm. His voice had been soft. "Shhh, angel. Just rest. You need sleep."

You hadn’t fought it, though you weren’t sure why. Maybe it was because Suguru’s voice had always been something that soothed you, something that made you feel safe even when you weren’t sure why you needed to feel safe. Or maybe it was because Satoru had sighed dramatically, pressed a lazy kiss to the top of your head, and settled himself on the other side of you, like it was all so casual.

"Guess I’ll have to hold you extra close, then," he had teased, slinging an arm over both you and Suguru, his grip loose. "Can’t have you slipping through my fingers again, huh?"

You had felt the slow, easy circles of his fingers tracing along your arm, the weight of Suguru’s breath against your hair, the warmth of their bodies on either side of you. Something had whispered in the back of your mind that this was wrong, that this wasn’t how things were supposed to be. But Suguru had kissed your temple, whispered a quiet "Sleep, angel," and Satoru had only chuckled, pressing his face into your shoulder with a sigh, and soon the heaviness had settled into your limbs, pulling you under before you could think too hard about it.

And that had been the routine, night after night, until it became something normal, something expected. Until it stopped feeling strange. Until you stopped questioning it altogether. Some nights however, when they had opposite shifts, when the nightmares of yours persisted, perhaps from all the medication you were taking much to your demise: 

Satoru’s voice.

Faint, familiar, a low murmur in your ears, wrapping around your disoriented mind like a lulling tide. Sheets. Soft beneath you, cradling you in their embrace. The scent of home.

Something was wrong.

You forced your eyelids open, sluggish and heavy, the weight of sleep, drugs, memories dragging you back down. Satoru’s body against yours, too solid, too warm. He was pressed into you, caging you against him, his bare chest rising and falling, his breath heavy as he buried his face into your hair.

Fevered kisses—

One. Two. Three.

Tears. Your tears. You hadn’t realized you were crying or perhaps weren’t sure that was something you could do anymore. A lot of things left you uneasy these days, especially as Satoru’s lips trailed across your damp skin, pressing against your temple, your cheek, your eyelids. Something frantic in the way he held you.

What a desperate man he was, those soft pink lips seemed to continue on their conquest for the salt of your tears, as his arms curled tighter, embrace crushing, as if he was ensuring you could never slip away from him, not like you had the strength to do such a thing. 

However you didn’t like the way his lips trailed to your pulse, causing a panic inside you to rise, to claw at your ribs, to force yourself to speak, to ask, to plead - nothing but a meek, broken whimper escaped. Your voice was gone, hidden away as Satoru’s hands traveled to your nightgown hitching the lace lining upwards. The only sound was the slow, shaky breath Satoru let out against your skin.

“Oh, princess,” he murmured, his voice rough, thick with something heavy, something raw. “You scared the hell out of me.”

You tried again, and again, and - 

Because something inside you was screaming, clawing at the back of your mind, a voice—not yours, yet somehow still yours—wailing in recognition, shrieking a warning, weaving a song of something terrible, something unspeakable.

Oh, what did they do to you? The abyss curled around your thoughts, purring, seething.

That’s a new thought.

Not one you liked.

Not one you asked for.

But you couldn’t choose your thoughts, could you?

Satoru’s breath was warm against your cheek, his lips brushing against your damp skin, murmuring something—a confession, an apology, a plea. “I’m sorry.”  The warmth of his bare chest pressed against you, the firm, steady weight of him sinking into you, grounding you, keeping you trapped.

Satoru wasn’t your husband.

So why was he acting like one?

“I’m so fucking sorry.” You heard a crack. The sound of something breaking. Not glass. Something inside him. Your thoughts moved sluggishly, bouncing like light trapped in mirrors, scattering, refracting, unable to land. Satoru wasn’t emotional. Satoru would laugh things off, he would tease, he would never cry.

Satoru would understand the word no.

Wouldn’t he?

Satoru—who teased you for being a crybaby, who ruffled your hair, who leaned too close just to watch you roll your eyes.

That Satoru.

But this one—

This one held you like you were something fragile, something broken, something that had already slipped through his fingers once before. Something beloved, something like a lover. This one pressed desperate kisses to your face, each one filled with words you couldn’t quite grasp.

"I love you."

A whisper.

"Suguru had to go back for his shift."

A ghost of sound against your skin. The sound of clothing being removed. 

"I love you."

Again. Over and over and over.

"I’m sorry." 

"I didn’t know—"

Didn’t know what?

Your body shuddered. Something coiled at the edges of your mind—the abyss, the thing inside you, the part of you that knew more than you did. It wrapped itself around your thoughts, dragging them down, down, down, pushing you beneath the water, forcing you to see—

A hospital.

The mental hospital.

Not white, not sterile, but painted in colors that didn’t belong.

Satoru.

He was there.

You could see him.

Why could you see him? Your vision flickered, disjointed, showing you glimpses of something you didn’t want to remember—

No, no, no—

A field of flowers.

Purple.

Vivid and endless, blooming in the quiet of your mind.

You focused on that.

You latched onto it. Ignoring the fingers that had trailed to your heat, the broke whimpers escaping your throat, the sound of I love yous being called out. 

Purple was better. Purple was better than the flowers from your dream. Better than the ones that filled the bathroom. Better than the ones that bloomed too red, too much, too violently.

No.

No, you had to focus. You had to free yourself from this danger, from this man who claimed he loved you, yet he was claiming your body as if it were already his. Your nerves buzzed, crackled, burned inside you, bouncing like photons, shooting in all directions, searching for something solid, something real.

But nothing would land.

Nothing would stick.

Not the words slipping from Satoru’s lips, not the weight of his body pressing into yours, not the dull ache threading through your bones. Not the pressure building up inside your core, not the sickening sounds of wet flesh bouncing in the room. Not the defilement of your marriage bed. 

Everything felt like it was happening somewhere else.

But Satoru was still holding you.

His voice wove into your skin, breath hot, shaky, frantic, lips moving over your cheeks, your forehead, your eyelids—kissing away your tears, swallowing them like they were his own.

He wasn’t supposed to be like this.

He was supposed to tease you, laugh things off, flick your forehead when you pouted, ruffle your hair like you were something small and irritating yet adored.

But this wasn’t playful. This wasn’t harmless.

"I’m sorry," Satoru mumbled into your skin, voice breaking at the edges, dragging you closer, pulling you deeper into the heat of his bare chest, caging you in his arms. His heartbeat was uneven, erratic, pounding too hard beneath his ribs, pressed up against you like he needed you to feel it, like he needed to prove it to you.

"I’m so fucking sorry."

There was something wrong.

Something breaking.

Not just inside you.

Inside him.

His grip was too tight, too possessive, fingers digging into your hips, holding you still, locked against him.

Satoru doesn’t get emotional.

Satoru is loud, carefree, reckless.

Satoru is supposed to understand boundaries.

Satoru is supposed to stop.

Then why wasn’t he stopping?

Why was his breath coming in fevered gasps, why were his lips tracing the trembling curve of your jaw, pressing kisses along the pulse point at your throat, why was his voice pleading, broken, desperate?

Why did he sound like he was losing you?

"You don’t get it," he whispered between each kiss, mumbling, unraveling, his voice trembling against your skin. "You don’t—you don’t get it, princess. You almost left us. I—I didn’t want to hold you down that night."

The realization slithered through your mind, slow and suffocating. The abyss stirred, uncoiling inside you, thrashing against the haze, against the warmth of Satoru’s hands, against the way his fingers trailed against your soft skin, leaving marks in their wake, gripping the soft flesh of your thighs like he had every right to touch you.

His lips trembled against yours—fevered, insatiable.

"I love you," he whispered, the words dissolving into the heat of his mouth against yours. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

The words felt frantic, possessive, more an oath than a confession.

Your wrists—pinned above your head, trapped in his grasp.

His fingers curled around them, pressing them into the mattress, his body flush against yours, holding you in place.

The weight of him was suffocating.

This was Satoru.

This was your best friend.

You weren’t supposed to react.

Your body betrayed you. The sharp, shallow rise and fall of your chest, the heat prickling beneath your skin, the helpless, breathless little sounds slipping past your lips—all of it responding to his touch.

Even though you knew this wasn’t right.

Even though you knew this wasn’t love.

Ache.

His hips rolled against yours, slow, drawing a gasp from your throat—not a protest, not a plea, just a sound. That was all the permission he needed. His hand slid up your thigh, pushing your nightgown higher, exposing more of you to him, letting his fingers map out your skin, burning the shape of you into his memory.

"You were gonna leave us," he murmured against your lips, breathless, aching, his voice raw with something you couldn’t name. "You don’t get to do that. Not when we love you so much."

We?

The word barely registered, barely even formed in your head before his lips claimed yours again, hungry, desperate, overwhelming.

Satoru devoured you like you belonged to him.

Like this was his right.

Like he could love you enough to erase everything that came before this.

Like he could rewrite everything.

Like he could keep you.

The abyss inside you howled.

But Satoru didn’t stop. His weight pressed into you, his touch fevered, his lips brushing against your skin between each ragged breath, between each mumbled I love you.

You found it easier to look up.

Easier to focus on the ceiling than on the way his body moved against yours.

Easier to count the little glowing stars above you, the ones you begged Suguru for one night, one, two, three…Easier to slip into numbers than acknowledge the heat sinking deep inside you, curling through your veins, stealing what little control you had left.

Your lashes fluttered. Tears pooled, slipped down your temples, soaked into the pillow.

Satoru felt them.

His lips followed them, kissed them away, his voice breaking between each trembling press of his mouth against your cheek, against your jaw. "You don’t know," he whispered, a soft, pleading murmur. "You don’t know how much we love you."

We.

The word stung, but you didn’t know why. You felt it, somewhere in the thick, dizzying fog of your mind, a wrongness, a fracture.

Not just Satoru. Suguru.

A memory curled at the edges of your mind—not one you wanted, but one that came anyway. Another horror in this dreadful night, you wished for those purple flowers not the red flowers that haunted you. Blooming against the pale blue tile, staining your palms, seeping between your fingers. Their warmth, how they stick to your skin in the unforgiving wake. That warmth inside you twisted and pulled, it wasn’t Satoru’s hands anymore, wasn’t the heat of his body, the stretch and ache of him deep inside you as he whispered I love you against your skin like worship.

Instead, it was Suguru’s hands, hands that had touched you thousands of times before. Gentle hands, hands that treated you like you were meant for devotion, for you were his purity.  A memory forced itself to the surface, unbidden. Suguru, standing behind you, his arms circling your waist, his lips brushing against the curve of your neck as you got ready for bed. A whisper, low, warm, laced with something soft, "You’re beautiful, angel." A gentle careful kiss but you had uttered the words, pushing him away once more, pushing away those red flowers that haunted you. 

"Not tonight, Suguru."

The way his breath caught.

The way his hands stilled for just a second — his lips lingered against your shoulder before he exhaled, slow, measured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Okay," he had murmured. Like any devoted husband. Like any man who respected the word no. 

But no devoted husband uses electric shock treatment to keep his wife.

The ceiling blurred. The glowing stars bled into one another, bright spots against the dark haze swallowing your thoughts. Satoru’s touch dragged you back to the present, his lips pressing against your cheek, his body molding into yours, his voice muffled against your skin.

You continued to count the stars, this would all be over soon, wouldn’t it? 

One.

Two.

Three.

And let them swallow you whole

Weeks bled into months. Months of learning to exist beneath them. Months of waking in tangled sheets, caged between their bodies, pressed into the heat of their skin, the weight of them a presence. Months of breathing them in, their scent embedding itself into your very cells, threading through your ribs, settling deep inside you like an infection.

Months of becoming—

Becoming the perfect little thing they wanted.

Because that’s what this was all for, wasn’t it?

A family.

One big, happy family. Satoru whispered it against your skin, his lips trailing slow, lazy paths down your throat, his breath warm, saccharine, curling into your bones. He murmured it between kisses, between soft chuckles, between hands that never strayed far, hands that claimed, that took, that demanded. Suguru was gentler, slower, patient in the way a sculptor was patient when chiseling something out of stone. His voice was warm, his touch deliberate as he pressed you into his chest, his arms curling around you like a cage that pretended to be soft. He spoke of love, of devotion, of how hard it was sometimes, of how you had lost your way, how they had simply helped you find it again.

They loved you.

They loved you so much.

You were theirs.

They were yours.

A perfect trinity.

The family you were always meant to have.

Satoru would hum against your skin, tracing the curve of your hip with absentminded fingers, pressing smug, drowsy kisses to your temple as he whispered about how long they had waited for this, how long they had fought for you, how long they had planned for you to be here, with them, forever. Suguru would sigh against your hair, pressing his lips to your forehead, fingers threading through yours, telling you that love is difficult, that sometimes you break apart, that sometimes you lose yourself, but that they had found you again, that they had brought you home.

You wished you could tell them they were wrong.

You wished you could scream it, shatter the illusion they had so carefully wrapped around you, rip it open at the seams and show them—show them that you had never been theirs, that they had stolen you, reshaped you, carved you into something pliable, breakable, compliant.

Instead, you smiled.

Instead, you nodded.

Instead, you whispered soft thanks, spoke gentle words, let yourself melt into them like a perfect little doll. Because that was the role they had given you.

And if you played it long enough.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

You could be free.

But freedom was slow.

Freedom had conditions.

Gold stickers meant you were good, meant you let Suguru kiss you deeply without hesitation. Meant you didn’t flinch when his calloused, thick fingers gripped your chin, tilting your face up, when his lips claimed yours with slow, deliberate intent, when his tongue pushed past your parted lips, sweeping into your mouth, taking. 

Because breathing was a freedom he granted you.

His kiss was slow, practiced, indulgent, meant to be savored, to be felt. His tongue tangled with yours, rolling, curling, teasing, until it became a battle you were never meant to win. Until all you could do was let him have it, let him claim the heat of your mouth, let him drown you in the wet, insistent slide of saliva and submission.

Gold stickers meant you pressed into Satoru’s touch when he pulled you into his lap, when he grabbed at you, hands too big, too possessive, sliding beneath your sweet frilly dresses like they belonged there. Meant you let his fingers explore, tease, stroke, meant you didn’t tense when they skimmed along your thighs, when they traced the soft curve of your waist, when they inched higher, higher, a slow ascent meant to make you tremble. Meant you didn’t fight when he leaned in, breath warm, voice sticky sweet, whispering how perfect you were.

How much he loved you.

How he wanted all of you, always.

Because Satoru loved you, didn’t he?

Suguru cherished you, didn’t he?

And good girls. Good girls got gold stickers. Gold stickers meant you let them have you.

Together.

Gold stickers meant you didn’t cry, didn’t tremble, didn’t fight when they showed you what it meant to be theirs.

They called it making love. When they claimed you, when they took turns molding you, reshaping you, guiding your body into what they wanted it to be. When Satoru would hum small tuts of don’t bite, don’t cry as you struggled to take him, as his grip tightened just enough to remind you that breath was a privilege he could take away, each time he shoved his length down your throat that refused to take the full length. When Suguru’s voice was patient, coaxing, as he filled you, his thick cock filling your entirety, as he waited for your body to surrender, to accept, to welcome. When they weren’t feeling so generous, when they both took you at once, you found comfort in counting the stars on the ceiling. 

One, two, three, four. 

A methodical ritual, a place to go when there was nowhere else to escape to, a set of bright constellations to disappear into until your body was no longer your own. Until the weight of them left you aching, until Suguru pressed a small, bitter pill to your lips. Not the soft, fuzzy ones. Not the ones that made everything feel distant, hazy, almost bearable.

No.

This one was different - ensured you would always be theirs.

Forever.

You didn’t call it making love. You refused to give it a name. Names have meaning because calling it something makes it real. 

And you had already learned that fighting back only earned red stickers.

Suguru would sigh, take your chin in his hand, tilt your face up, his thumb smoothing over your lips as he murmured, “You’re not trying hard enough, angel.” Sinking himself further into you as you wailed that this was too much, however, words still refused to leave your lips when they gave you the fuzzy pill.  Satoru would smile—too easy, too light—before pressing you down, before kissing you so deeply you couldn’t breathe, before whispering, “We love you, princess. Let us show you.”

Suguru’s hands would hold you still.

Satoru’s lips would silence your words.

And you would let them.

Because fighting meant nothing.

Because the times you fought were worse.

You had already learned that fighting back only earned red stickers.

And red stickers weren’t just reprimands.

They were punishments.

Punishments that stripped you down, peeled you apart layer by layer, until you no longer knew where the pain ended and where you began.

Because love is difficult, isn’t it?

That’s what Suguru always told you. Love took patience, love took sacrifice, love took understanding. You had lost yourself for a little while, but they found you again.

And love was about keeping what belonged to you.

Red stickers meant the dark.

Suguru never yelled. He never needed to. He didn’t believe in harsh words, didn’t believe in cruelty, only correction.

"You just need time to think, angel," he would say, voice so warm, so understanding, as he shut the door. And you would sit in the darkness, alone, the air around you thick, pressing, suffocating, your own heartbeat the only sound in the void. You would listen to it, the heavy thump, thump, thump of it against your ribs, a reminder that you were here, that time still moved, even if you couldn’t see it.

But hours could stretch into eternities in the dark.

Your mind would start playing tricks on you.

You would hear the floor creak even when no one was there.

You would see things—shadows shifting in the corners of your vision, shapes that moved just when you blinked. The wallsm breathing, growing, closing in. You would scratch at your arms just to feel something real, press your nails into your palms, try to hold onto yourself. But eventually, the dark would become your only companion. And when the door finally opened, spilling in the golden glow of the hallway, illuminating Suguru’s familiar, patient face, you would thank him. You would cry into his chest as he murmured soft reassurances, stroked your hair, shushed you like a parent soothing a child, whispering, “It’s okay, angel. You’re home now.”

Red stickers meant silence.

You were allowed to speak—until you weren’t, or at least the words you were able to speak despite all the speech therapy that Satoru engages in with you. Giving you a gold star for every time you mention the words I love you.

Suguru would take away your voice.

Satoru would take away your body.

And both of them, together, would take away your mind.

Suguru believed words had weight. And your words needed to be earned.

"You talk too much sometimes, angel," he would murmur, cupping your cheek, thumb smoothing over your lips in a way that almost felt loving. "I think it’s best if you take some time to listen instead."

And then, the silence would begin.

For hours.

For days.

No one would speak to you. Not when you greeted them in the morning, not when you reached for them in the kitchen, not when you curled into Satoru’s lap at night, searching for warmth, for comfort, for something. You would try to apologize, try to whisper, try to fix whatever you did wrong—but silence was the only thing that answered you.

The absence of their voices would drive you mad.

Because they were the only voices you had left.

And you wouldn’t even realize it until you were begging for them to speak to you. Until you were crying, pleading, promising you’d be better, that you’d be good, that you wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Until Suguru finally sighed, finally smiled, finally opened his arms for you to crawl into.

"See? I knew you’d understand."

And you would nod.

And you would thank him.

Because you had learned.

Because love had to be felt.

Red stickers meant pain.

But not pain in the ways you expected. Not bruises or broken skin. No, that would be too easy. Suguru didn’t believe in hurting you. Satoru didn’t believe in making you suffer.

"We would never, ever hurt you, princess," Satoru would murmur, pressing feather-light kisses to your knuckles.

"We love you too much for that," Suguru would promise, smoothing your hair, lips against your temple.

Instead— they let you hurt yourself.

The isolation and silence. The punishments were made to be felt—so that you would be so grateful when they stopped.

So that when Suguru finally pulled you into his arms, when Satoru finally buried his fingers into your hair, when their voices finally filled the quiet, you would cling to them.

You would melt into them. You would thank them for loving you enough to teach you the right way to love them back.

Because red stickers weren’t punishments.

Not really. They were lessons. They were reconstruction.

They were breaking you down and putting you back together.

Until there was nothing left to fix. Until you weren’t just theirs. Until you were nothing else— nothing but the howling abyss that had consumed you, devoured you, and made a home inside your ribs where love was supposed to be. You had been reshaped, rewritten, reduced to something that fit neatly into their hands. A perfect little thing. A cherished possession. A beloved doll. And yet—beneath it all, beneath the softness, the compliance, the pretty, painted-over ruin.

Something inside you still whispered.

Something inside you still knew.

You were not whole. You were not safe. You were not theirs.

But maybe that was the cruelest part. Maybe you had never been yours, either. Maybe you had always belonged to something else. Something lurking in the shadows of your mind. Something clawing beneath your skin. Maybe it had always been waiting, for the right moment. Waiting for them to break you just enough that you no longer cared about surviving.

Because that’s how madness works, isn’t it? It doesn’t come all at once. It seeps in like a slow drip. It whispers before it howls. It curls around your ribs, waiting, waiting, waiting—until you went insane.

Or maybe you had always been insane.

Maybe it had never been a matter of breaking. Maybe it had only been a matter of time.

It was poetic, really.

The game had always been theirs, Suguru with his patience, Satoru with his affection. Two halves of the same vice, pressing, tightening, shaping you into something that belonged to them.

And yet—they never expected you to playback. Never expected that after all these months, all this time, after all the gold stickers and red stickers and quiet, compliant submission—you would take something from them.

They thought they had won.

They thought you had finally learned to love them.

Because you had let them in.

Because you had stopped fighting.

Because you had smiled.

And maybe that was the cruelest part.

You had smiled.

You had whispered, I love you too.

You had given them everything, just long enough to make them believe it. Because love was trust, wasn’t it? And they trusted you. They trusted you enough to leave you alone. To step out into the world believing you would wait for them, believing you would always be right where they left you, believing that you had finally accepted what they had been trying to give you all along.

That you had accepted them.

Accepted their love.

Their home.

Their family.

But love had never been a choice for you.

And now, it wasn’t a choice for them either.

When the door creaked open, when Suguru stepped inside first, smiling, slipping off his coat, Satoru trailing behind him, laughing at some joke that no longer mattered, It took only seconds for them to see it. The pill cabinet was half-open. The empty bottles were carelessly discarded. And then - you. Sitting there, waiting, smiling. Like you always did. Like a perfect little doll. But your skin was too pale, your eyes, too bright, too fevered, too glassy.

The first stumble. Your body swayed, the room tilting on an unseen axis, the distant, detached feeling of your limbs no longer being yours, your stomach turning inside out, nausea curling in waves.

Suguru’s smile faltered.

Satoru’s laughter died.

And when Suguru’s sharp eyes narrowed, when he took one step forward—you laughed. High. Light. Almost musical.

Suguru froze.

Satoru stilled.

Like a moment caught in time, stretched too thin, seconds passing that felt like centuries. Then, realization. The widening of Suguru’s pupils, the way his breath hitched, the way his hand shot out to steady you, to touch you, as if that could stop what was happening.

As if he could still save you.

As if he had ever saved you.

And Satoru—well. Satoru looked like he had been shot. His lips parted, no breath, no sound, body locked into place, unblinking, unbreathing, his hands twitching, fingers flexing like he didn’t know what to do with them. As if his mind was refusing to understand what his eyes were seeing, because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

You were theirs.

You were supposed to be safe.

"No," Suguru murmured, and for the first time in your life, his voice was something other than that calm vice.

And for the first time since you have been met with Suguru—you felt powerful. A tilt of your head, lips stretching wider into something not quite a smile, not quite anything at all.

"I hope in another timeline, I never meet either of you." The words tumbled out easy like they had been waiting to escape for months since they did this to you. Words you had to practice in a mirror. Words that shouldn't have taken so much effort but all the drugs and treatments they put you on...had ruined who you really are.

Suguru’s grip tightened around your arms, his nails digging in too hard as if he could keep you here, keep you alive, keep you his. Satoru still hadn’t moved. His breath was shallow, his eyes darting everywhere—the empty bottles, the pale of your skin, the sweat glistening along your forehead.

The first cough.

And with it, the first bloom of red, something your mind changed to flowers but you knew what this truly was. The way the petals splattered against your palm, hot and thick, dripping between your fingers, staining your lips. Satoru jerked forward, his hands shaking as he reached for you, so, so gently, like he was afraid to break you even more.

But you were already breaking.

You had already broken.

The second cough came harder.

Then the third.

And suddenly, the room was shaking, or maybe it was you that was shaking, or maybe it was them, or maybe it was everything falling apart all at once.

Suguru was begging now. "No, no, no, angel, look at me - don’t do this, don’t fucking do this." Those large warm hands you once loved were cradling your face, cupping your cheeks, trying to hold you together even as more red spilled from your lips, and dripped onto his fingers, onto his wrists.

And Satoru was fumbling through his phone for 911, an ambulance, two doctors who were beyond saving their beloved patient now. However, you had never seen him quite like this, never seen his chest rise and fall in uneven, erratic bursts, never seen his fingers tremble, never seen his lips shake around a choked, gasping “Princess, please.”

Please?

Like you owed him something.

Like you owed them anything.

"This isn’t love." The words gurgled up past the wet heat in your throat, burning, raw, torn from somewhere deep inside you that they had never been able to touch. "You never loved me."

Maybe that was what broke them.

Not the blood.

Not the pale blue of your skin.

Not the way your body sagged against Suguru’s chest as you slipped further, further away.

But that.

That you had never believed them.

That even in their twisted devotion, their patience, their desperate, all-consuming love—you had never truly been theirs.

Even after everything.

Even now.

Suguru let out a sound, something strangled, something inhuman, as he pressed his forehead against yours, as he rocked you, shook you, pleaded with you, his words breaking apart before they could even form.

Satoru just kept whispering your name as he waited for the ambulance to arrive. Over and over and over. Like if he said it enough, maybe you would answer him. Like if he said it enough, maybe you would stay.

Like if he said it enough, maybe this wouldn’t be real. It was though, this was a fact. The same fact that they did this to you, drove you this far into the abyss letting that monster finally be released to pay them the dues they so much deserved. And as the darkness finally took you, as your body finally gave in, as the last shreds of yourself finally slipped through their fingers—you smiled. For the first time in this life, you had finally broken through the haze.

You had won.

[dollerinna]

WOULD YOU LIKE AN ALMOND JOY .ᐣ

( black noir x gn!crime analyst reader )

summary: after a long day of work, you try to unwind by watching your comfort show, but your solitude is interrupted by yet another visit from noir, who seems to be finding more and more excuses to spend time with you… (includes a C.AI bot as part 2 below!)

wordcount: 2k

tags: brief mention of NSFW pop-up ads, nerdy n’ socially awkward reader, noir’s disdain for almond joys but he makes up for it at the end <3

It had been a long day at the crime analytics office in Vought. As the sun began to set, exhaustion crept over you after reviewing incident report after report. Your eyes strained from the blue glare of your computer screen. You knew you had promised your boss you would organize the ever-growing database, but the tiny voice of procrastination was pleading for rest before your overworked brain turned into a pile of mush.

Rather than more paperwork—you, being the slacker of all slackers in this department, decided a well-deserved break was in order. And what better way to recharge than turning off the noggin and filling it with good ol’ fashioned mindless entertainment?

With a few tired clicks of your mouse, you booted up your go-to streaming site, which was none other than 123movies. Scrolling through the options, your cursor hovered over the play button of your favorite trashy drama. The kind of cheesy, perfectly predictable melodrama spun from the worst of amateur YA plots. It was practically comfort food for your fatigued mind, just what you needed to loosen up after the mental marathon that was this long day.

As the opening credits began to roll, your computer began to whir and hiss like an overtaxed engine, emitting gusts of unusually hot air from the vents. Suddenly, its screen slowed to a sluggish crawl, cluttered with a barrage of not-so-savory pop-up ads. Barely a minute in, the pixels already scrambled to form images better to left unseen—half naked women in risqué yet tacky mermaid-like attire, claiming they were ‘just around the corner and ready for a good aquatic fuck.’

First of all, what the absolute living hell is an “aquatic fuck”??

Did you even want to know? And most importantly, what happened to the ad blocker you installed just the other day? Judging by the contents, you had a sneaking suspicion that slimy, sea-dwelling degenerate, The Deep, had tampered with your computer… yet again.

“For the love of-… what’s with all these pop-up ads?” you muttered under your breath as excessively explicit ads crowded out the episode. Your eyes darted furtively around the room to check for wandering glances, hoping against hope that none of your coworkers had noticed the unwanted filth invading your screen. Heart pounding, you squeezed your chair closer to your monitor into a makeshift barricade, shielding the display as best you could while hastily clicking away at the intrusive ads.

As you hurriedly closed the remaining windows, an ominous shadow fell across the screen. Dreading what—or who—might be behind you, you slowly swiveled your chair around to find Black Noir's stoic stare boring into your own.

You stifled a yelp as you instinctively clutched the armrests, catching yourself on the edge of your seat before an ungainly spill to the floor. Noir had a way of materializing without warning, and it never failed to unnerve.

“N-Noir!” you managed, inwardly cringing as your voice broke on his name. “Fancy seeing you in these parts. I was just taking a quick break and y’know- stretching ‘em brain cells.” You tried for a lighthearted chuckle, but it emerged as more of a strained squeak that faded into an anxious hum.

With a jerky flurry of clicks and the browser minimized from view, whatever dignity you still retained disappearing along with it. All that did remain was you praying to the heavens above that he hadn't noticed its questionable contents (even if he most definitely had and simply chose not to comment)

When Noir offered no response, you of course charmingly barreled ahead in your frazzled daze. “But anyways, s-sorry about that… how uh, can I help you today?” your words tumbled out in a breathless rush, punctuated by a shrill laugh you hoped disguised the mortification simmering beneath.

Noir cocked his head, observing you with that same silent intensity. You fidgeted, hands twisting in knotted discomfort, the heat in your ears now engulfing your entire face. Was it the invasive pop-ups that had you squirming in your seat? Or the fact he could snuff out your existence faster than you can say “workers’ comp”?

Either way, beneath the weight of his stare, you already felt as if you were some peculiar, freakish creature pinned for study, rather than some bumbling employee just trying to unwind and watch their comfort show.

And to him, you indeed were a fascinating, bizarre little human.

Mercifully, Noir chose to extend a folder toward you, putting an end to your somewhat pathetic withering. You accepted it with a wordless nod, nearly sagging in your chair as tension drained from your shoulders.

Whirling towards the familiar clutter of your desk once more, you pretended absorption in the folder’s material, hoping this signaled Noir’s leave. After all, has anyone seen the state of you? It certainly wasn’t a flattering one. Yet from the corner of your eye, you detected no movement, no receding footsteps—his shadowy form remained statuesquely in place.

Believe it or not, this has been becoming a thing, a growing habit of late—and a suspicious one at that. Lately his breaks had grown longer, minutes lengthening to quarters of an hour, all spent hovering at your desk as you worked. However, his focus was solely on watching and observing you. He never exhibited a hint of thought or motive for his reason there, only leaving you with questions that seemed to multiply by each and every visit.

Noir, on the other hand, was somehow utterly convinced that you and him were two peas in a tightly-knit pod. He swore you two were best of buds for life—even if "life" so far had only amounted to the past two weeks' worth of half-hour stretches where he silently observed your work from the corner.

Ironically, you didn’t have the slightest inkling of how he really felt. Instead, you always assumed that he, like most supes, regarded you as little more than a puny mortal—a fragile, near-useless sack of flesh and bones whose skull he was one misstep away from caving in with bare hands.

But nope, Noir was simply here to bless you, the nerdy but cute crime analyst, with his presence—his rather… unsettling presence.

The familiar hush settled as you reluctantly returned focus to the task at hand. Hocus-pocus-focus, you chanted mentally, peeling away the last shreds of stray thoughts to tap into the zone of productivity. Unfurling the dossier Noir provided, you began sifting through documents for insight on his purpose in approaching you. Meanwhile, a flick of movement in the edge of your vision revealed Noir's attention veer off course, the almond joy perched beside your keyboard capturing his notice.

You tensed, hocus-pocus-focus breaking, all too aware of past disappearances of snacks in these briefings. Sure enough, his hand drifted noiselessly toward the candy bar, no doubt spurred by ingrained impulse to dispose of it per his usual custom. But you'd grown wise to his methods by now.

Not again, you sighed inwardly, snatching the almond joy and cradling it protectively as if it were your dear, beloved child.

Noir made no move to withdraw, palm outstretched expectantly. You frowned, struggling to keep frustration at bay. "Please, come on- not this time!.. It's my last one for the day." Brows pinching, your tone threatened to rise before steadying with a slow and calm inhale. No use losing composure over candy, no matter the principle. So all you could do was peer beseechingly at Noir in silent appeal, legs jittering restlessly under your desk in building apprehension.

Unfortunately, you found no signs of leniency in his obscured face—only his hand beckoning relentlessly for the almond joy. You plea was once again met with stony resolve, as if he was internally distressed by the mere presence of it. What was he? Deathly allergic to almond joys or something?

With a resigned breath, you delivered the almond joy towards Noir's waiting glove, unable to hide the disappointment dimming your features. Your lips curled into a slight pout, gaze sinking heavy into your lap at being parted from the treat. Though Noir was never one for words, it really didn’t take a rocket scientist to see you felt bullied into submission by his demands. At the end of the day, what power did a measly analyst like yourself hold against one of the Seven? As your fingers uncurled, releasing the candy into Noir's grasp, you couldn't help but feel a bit put upon, even if that wasn’t his intention at all.

Noir was well aware of the upset feelings his request had caused, so in an attempt to remedy the situation, his arm was sent in a backwards reach for the notepad he often used to communicate. However, he found himself at a loss as words eluded him, his thoughts swirling in frustrating circles of “What should I even say?”—muddled and incoherent. For a moment he stared at you, mask betraying no emotion as he grappled to find the right words, despite the prick of guilt nibbling at his conscience. Then, lacking any better option, he simply tossed the offending candy into the trash, perhaps with more force than intended.

Clearly, socializing was not Noir’s strong suit.

With no further acknowledgment, Noir spun on his heel and marched away. You watched his retreating, rigid form with discomfort clenching your insides, eyes falling onto the lonely candy discarded in the trash, its colorful wrapper mocking your current disheartened state.

Wearily, you turned away from the almond joy, redirecting your attention toward the computer as a means to divert your now soured mood. Maximizing the browser, you hoped that your planned show may have had time to load during the interaction. But upon inspecting the screen, you found the video remained stubbornly stalled, stuck on buffering dots and refusing to roll despite the minutes passed.

Just. Peachy.

One (super)human encounter had sucked the very life source out of your dog-tired body, and now this. It was really shaping up to be one of those days.

Thoroughly worn out, you gently laid your head down onto the desk, pillowing it against the crook of your folded arms as eyelids slid shut. All you craved was to simply sleep away the remaining time until you could finally escape this wretched shift and retreat to the sanctuary of your home sweet home.

─────────────────

As your shift wound down to its end, you were finally stirring from your slumber. Rubbing the sleep from your bleary eyes, your blurred vision sharpened to show your colleagues had long since departed while you were snoozing away.

Rising and squaring your shoulders, you began to gather your belongings in preparation to leave as well. Once you had collected everything and lifted to your feet, something in the far corner of your desk caught your eye. Approaching for a closer look in the dim lighting, the fuzzy outline gradually came into focus—a cluttered collection of Hershey's Kisses, their jumbled placement grouped to form the shape of a heart.

You blinked in bewilderment, rubbing your eyes once more to ensure you weren't imagining things. Stepping closer, you spotted a sticky note nestled within the heart of chocolates, scrawled upon in a crude, blocky hand. At first, you assumed it was some silly prank from one of your coworkers, but you knew you recognized the handwriting anywhere—it was Noir's.

Gingerly, you plucked the sticky note from the desk, lifting it to your line of sight to read the message. “Kisses taste better than almond joys…Sorry.” you read softly, your voice trailing off as confusion crept in.

Designed as a very apparent flirty gesture, the intent behind the note and chocolates still managed to whoosh straight over your head. As always seemed the case, even the most painfully obvious social cues could so easily evade your understanding—this proving no exception.

You slipped the sticky note into your pocket, then selected a foil-wrapped Kiss from the pile. Gently rolling the chocolate between your fingers, you unwrapped it and popped one into your mouth. You took time to savor its light cream filling beneath a smooth outer shell, face crinkling in thought and head tilting as you considered your verdict. “Eh… I’d beg to differ.” you mused with a shrug, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you took your leave from the office.

-------☆-------

Pssst- likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated in this household and keep me motivated! <3

-------☆-------

a C.AI bot as your very own part 2 where you thank Noir the following day:

a/n: saw somewhere that kisses don’t contain nuts but then I also saw someone else say they actually do??? So let’s just pretend the kisses Noir chose are completely nut-free for the sake of the plot 😭

also, the reader is very much based off Anika if it wasn’t obvious enough haha! She’s so y/n coded 😤💗

♡ divider credits: @/ianrkives

[lemonlover1110]

𝐏𝐀𝐘 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄!

Choso

Pairing: Choso x f!Reader

Summary: Your boyfriend completely stops focusing on you after you give him a gaming console for his birthday. Luckily, you have a very clever way of reminding him that you also need his attention.

Warnings: MDNI, smut, oral sex (m. receiving), masturbation

10k Event Masterlist

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

Getting your boyfriend a gaming console for his birthday was truly the worst mistake you've ever made. The moment he turned on the console, all the attention that was rightfully yours, went to a monitor and a controller. Sure, Choso isn’t the most affectionate boyfriend but at the very least he’d give you attention.

You would be attached to the hip, you’d give him all your physical love while he’d do you a favor; whether it was getting you a glass of water or preparing your favorite snack. But now that’s not happening. You try to spend time with him but he’s always on his fucking game, and it annoys you more than you’d like to admit. 

“Do you want to watch a movie tonight, babe?” You walk to the living room, finding him with his headphones on, eyes dead focused on the TV. You sit down next to him, and your usually calm boyfriend suddenly begins to scream, the match pissing him off. You roll your eyes, tempted to turn off the game, but you know that’ll ensue a huge argument. You clear your throat, and repeat your question.

“Huh?” He responds, and you glare at him. You decide that you won’t ask the question for a third time. You’re about to stand up and walk away, but your eyes go to his sweatpants, and a much better idea comes to mind. You suck your bottom lip between your teeth and ponder your options. You’re touch starved because of the stupid game console. But Choso doesn’t deserve it.

Your hand still goes to his thigh, and you get on your knees on the floor. Maybe doing this for him will make him remember that he still has a girlfriend with a lot of needs. He can’t pause the game, risking for him to lose when he looks down at you. Utter confusion then clarity hits as your hands go to the waistband of his sweatpants. You give him the cutest eyes while a wicked smirk comes to your lips before asking him, “May I?”

“Have fun.” He responds, his eyes back on the screen. You pull down his pants and boxers, letting his cock free of its confinements. 

Your hand wraps around the base of his shaft and you spit on his cock a couple of times. Your tongue drags on his dick before it gets to the tip. Your tongue circles the tip before you hollow your cheeks and wrap your mouth around what you can take of his cock. It doesn’t earn much of a reaction from him. His game is that much fun.

Your hand wraps around the part that isn’t in your mouth, stroking it while you bob your head. Your free hand goes to his balls, massaging them to get a sound from him, and you feel like you’ve succeeded when you hear a whimper from him. You look up at him, his eyes still focused on the TV but you feel his attention drifting. 

You stop playing with his balls, your hand goes down your own shorts and gets in your panties. Your index and middle finger run through your folds before you begin to play with your clit. Sucking him off always turns you on so much. And it works more now since you’re in dire need of attention.

You try to take all of him in your mouth, your eyes immediately filling up with tears as you gag on his cock. You hear a soft moan from him, and your teary eyes watch him finally break his focus. You finally let his dick go, gasping at a breath of fresh air. It doesn’t take too long for your mouth to wrap around him again, going back to all you can handle. You push two fingers inside your pussy and begin to move them in and out of you, moaning on his cock. 

“Ah… shit– fuck fuckfuckfuck–” You hear, and you watch him toss the controller to the side. He doesn’t care if he loses anymore, his attention has been captivated. He whimpers again before praising you, “You’re doing so good…”

Your fingers go back to your clit, playing with it a bit more before stopping. You have a feeling that your night is far from over, and he won’t edge you. On the contrary. He’ll be generous tonight after you’ve been so generous to him.

He gets more vocal as you continue, letting you know that he’s close to finishing. Maybe after this he’ll finally remember what he’s missing out on while he focuses all his attention on a stupid game. He’s missing out on his pretty little girlfriend in a hundred different ways– If you do well enough he might smash the console into pieces (he won’t).

“I’m gonna–” His breath gets caught up in his chest, his hand going to the back of your head and pushing your head down before he fills your mouth up with his cum. He holds your head still for a moment, and when he finally lets go, there’s a smirk on your face as you swallow every drop of his cum. 

“Did that change your mind?” You ask.

“Let’s go to the bedroom.” He completely ignores the game on his screen, completely focused on you.

[wroetolando]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝙷𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚝 𝚆𝚊𝚛 | 𝙻𝙽𝟺

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: lando norris x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where lando finds a hornet mid-stream, panics, and calls you to save him—only to realize there are two

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: help! - the beatles

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: language

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The first sign that something was wrong came in the form of Lando’s sudden silence.

You had been sitting on the couch, lazily scrolling through your phone while his stream played in the background. His usual stream banter filled the apartment—occasional bursts of laughter, the sound of his wheel clicking as he drove, and random mutterings under his breath.

But then, out of nowhere, dead silence.

You frowned, glancing up from your phone. “Lando?”

A beat. Then—

“It’s bigger than a hornet,” Lando’s voice came, his tone filled with absolute terror. “It’s like a bird, man!”

Your head snapped up in time to see him pushing his chair back so violently it nearly tipped over. He was standing now, his headset still on but slightly lopsided, his wide eyes locked on something off-screen.

“Lando, what—”

Then he bolted.

You blinked.

The chat exploded on his screen. Messages flew in at lightning speed, all variations of:

WHAT IS HAPPENING??

LANDO ARE YOU OKAY??

“LIKE A BIRD”??????

And then he screamed.

Lando Norris, the Formula 1 driver, a man who routinely threw himself into high-speed battles at over 200 mph, screamed at a pitch so high that you were sure dogs were perking up in confusion across the neighborhood.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, standing up to investigate.

By the time you entered his streaming room, you were met with the sight of pure chaos. Lando had somehow acquired the vacuum cleaner, wielding it like an ancient warrior preparing for battle. The nozzle was raised toward the ceiling, trembling slightly in his grip.

“Ooh, it’s moving! It resists!” he yelped, his voice cracking.

You followed his gaze and finally spotted the enemy—a single, admittedly large, hornet clinging to the ceiling.

You bit your lip, trying desperately not to laugh. “Lando, are you—”

“Oh, she’s too big!” Lando shrieked, his hand tightening around the vacuum like it was a lifeline. “What the fuck! It’s resisting the Hoover! It’s just—oh my god, it’s looking at me! IT’S LOOKING AT ME!”

That was it. You lost it.

Doubling over, you laughed so hard that tears pricked at your eyes.

Lando, however, did not find the situation nearly as funny.

He turned to glare at you, betrayal written all over his face. “THIS ISN’T FUNNY, Y/N!”

You struggled to catch your breath. “I—I’m sorry, I just—”

“NO, BECAUSE LOOK AT IT!”

You did. The hornet, completely unfazed, was just chilling on the ceiling, probably wondering what the hell was wrong with the screaming human below.

“I swear it’s planning an attack,” Lando muttered.

You wiped at your eyes, still chuckling. “You’re actually ridiculous.”

Before he could retort, the hornet suddenly twitched.

Lando screamed.

It was loud. It was dramatic. And it was followed immediately by the loud thud of the vacuum hitting the ground as he scrambled away.

“Fuck. Oh—oh my god, I’m SCARED!”

The chat was going insane. You could see messages popping up on his second monitor.

LANDO THIS IS THE FUNNIEST THING I’VE EVER SEEN

THE WAY HE THREW THE HOOVER LMAOOOO

SOMEONE PLEASE CLIP THIS

Lando, oblivious to the internet roasting him in real time, now had a shoe in his hand. He looked at you, wild-eyed.

“This is it,” he muttered. “I’m going in.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“No. But I have no choice.”

And with that, he launched the shoe at the hornet with the kind of determination that should’ve guaranteed success.

It didn’t.

The shoe missed entirely.

And then—because the universe apparently had a sick sense of humor—another hornet appeared.

Lando froze.

His voice dropped into a whisper. “There’s two.”

You blinked. “What?”

His hands trembled.

“There’s TWO.”

A pause.

Then, absolute pandemonium.

“WHAT THE FUCK.”

Lando sprinted across the room, tripping over the fallen vacuum in his haste. You barely had time to register his sheer level of panic before—

“There’s TWOOOOOOOOOOO.”

His voice cracked violently, sending you into another uncontrollable fit of laughter. You had never seen him this distressed before.

“I TOLD YOU!” he wailed. “I TOLD YOU!”

At this point, he had climbed onto his gaming chair like it was a lifeboat in the middle of the ocean.

“Alright, alright, I’ll handle it,” you said, still laughing.

“No—Y/N, don’t! You can’t just—”

You ignored him, grabbing a rolled-up magazine and stepping forward. Lando let out a strangled noise of protest, but he was too frozen in fear to physically stop you.

With one swift motion, you swatted at the first hornet. It immediately darted toward the open window and disappeared.

One down.

Lando let out a small, hopeful gasp.

You turned to the second one, waiting for it to settle. Then, just as it landed, you struck again.

It was over in seconds.

Silence filled the room.

Lando stared at you in awe. “…You’re actually insane.”

You rolled your eyes, tossing the magazine onto the desk. “You’re welcome.”

Without warning, Lando lunged at you, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding on for dear life.

“You saved me,” he mumbled dramatically into your shoulder. “You’re my hero.”

You laughed, patting his back. “I hope you know the internet is never going to let you live this down.”

He groaned. “I already know. I’m gonna be seeing this for the next five years.”

You pulled back slightly, tilting your head. “You do realize that if you’d just let me handle it earlier, you wouldn’t have just humiliated yourself in front of thousands of people?”

Lando frowned, his lips pursing in thought. Then, with all the wisdom in the world, he said, “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”

You smacked his arm.

He grinned.

The chat was still exploding. Clips were already being shared. Memes were being made in real-time.

And you?

You couldn’t wait to watch them.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

[superhoeva]

the thought of walsh and abbott both getting possessive over reader at work and the both of them competing while double domming reader after they're all off is driving me insane

(i think you've opened pandora's box...)

When your name tumbles from their lips at the same time, all you can do is freeze.

“C’mere for a sec, kid. Got a good one for ya.” Jack is the first to start again, B-lining for where you stand at a monitor, ten seconds-post finishing a chart for your latest patient. “Guy in 18 has a–”

“Actually, I need you with me. Single GS incoming, six minutes out,” Walsh appears on the other side of your shoulders, clenching her hand together to keep her from grabbing your arm like she so desperately desires.

Pursing your lips, you keep your eyes on the screen. You end up kicking yourself in the inside when you can’t find anything to make it look like you’re busy.

“Well, sorry, Dr. Walsh but she’s coming with me,” Jack declares, making sure to soften his face with a quick smile when he nods his head at you to follow. “Gotta reattach the tip of an index finger, want you gloved up so I can talk you through the suture–”

“Too bad. I need her with me in Trauma. Have Parker do it, she could handle that with her eyes closed. Easy.”

“Parker’s busy, and this is a good learning opportunity for the kid. Or have you forgotten we’re a teaching hospital, Dr. Walsh?”

“She can learn just as much from a GSW as she can from a replantation.”

“You sure about that one?”

“Hey,” you breathe out, moving to step in between where the two are starting to unconsciously tug toward one another. You even throw a little frown at them but it probably looks like more of a pout because you hate when they get like this–and you know they know you hate it when they get like this. “Really, you guys? Right here?”

A handful of thick seconds pass. Finally–

“...come on.”

“...let’s move.”

Huffing, you drop your arms and toss an annoyed glare at the ceiling. “Fuck me.”

“Fuck me…” you whisper out, flinching when Emery circles a drenched tongue around your clit at a whine-indcucing pace. You squirm against Jack’s front, who doesn't stop the sloppy kisses he pressing just below your ear when he tightens his grip around you. “Ah.”

“Thought y-you all we’re supposed to be–shit–making up f-for earlier,” you whimper, “not this.”

“Should’ve had me go first. Would’a let you come on my tongue at least three times by now, doll.”

“Oh, I think you spent your fair share of time down here yesterday afternoon,” Emery smacks along your slit, hand squeezing at the plush of your thighs as she sends a cutting look past you toward Jack. He meets the sharp gaze, sending a just-as-piercing leer while his teeth move to nibble at your jaw. “Could still taste her when you kissed me before work. You should fucking shave, by the way.”

Just as Jack hurries to rebut, Emery sucks at you clit with enough force to wail a moan from you loud enough to cover Abbot’s rasp. He rolls his eyes at the two of you even though his cock jumps at the sound and the sight.

“Can someone please just fuck me?”

A little of the tension melts, Jack and Emery sharing a small quirk of the lips.

Dragging her lips up your body, Walsh hangs over you and Jack in a close hover. She bends a little, sharing a long snog with Jack before pulling away and turning to you.

“We’re sorry, baby,” she coos, cupping your cheeks and bending to kiss your lips. You feel Jack breathing deep behind you as her tongue swipes across yours. Giving you one last peck, she pulls away with a quick wink that only you can see before helping Jack shift you against him. “Got her?”

“Yeah. You set, hun?”

A genuine smile ghosts across Emery’s mouth, and she stares at you and Jack. Chest warming, she hums out an easy mhm. 

“You?”

Jack grins at Emery, pecking a kiss to your shoulder just before lacing his fingers with the woman at your front. “Never better, baby.”

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[chandutiwar]

Protect Your Eyes and Privacy with Pxin Monitor Privacy Screen Guards

In an era where digital devices have become an indispensable part of our lives, protecting our eyes from harmful blue light and maintaining privacy has become more crucial than ever. Enter Pxin Monitor Privacy Screen Guards, the ultimate solution to safeguarding your eyes and data privacy while enhancing your viewing experience.

Pxin Monitor Privacy Screen Guards are engineered with state-of-the-art BL'UV'Lightblock™ technology, effectively blocking harmful UV rays and blue light emissions. This innovative feature not only reduces eye strain and fatigue but also helps prevent long-term damage caused by prolonged exposure to blue light.

But Pxin doesn't stop there. Their screen guards also incorporate anti-glare properties, ensuring clear and crisp visuals even in brightly lit environments. Whether you're working in a sunlit office or enjoying your favorite content outdoors, Pxin's anti-glare feature guarantees optimal viewing comfort without any annoying reflections or glares.

One of the standout features of Pxin Monitor Privacy Screen Guards is their commitment to privacy protection. With advanced privacy filters, these screen guards prevent visual hackers from peering over your shoulder and snooping on your confidential information. Now you can work on sensitive documents or browse personal emails with peace of mind, knowing that your screen is shielded from prying eyes.

It's no surprise that Pxin Monitor Privacy Screen Guards have become India's top Amazon bestseller in the monitor accessories category. Their superior quality, innovative technology, and unparalleled performance have earned them rave reviews from satisfied customers across the country.

For those interested in experiencing the benefits of Pxin Monitor Privacy Screen Guards, purchasing is made easy through their website, www.pxin.in. With just a few clicks, you can explore their range of screen guards and choose the perfect fit for your monitor.

For inquiries, bulk orders, or special discounts, Pxin provides multiple avenues of contact. You can reach out to them via email at info@pxin.in or connect with them on WhatsApp at +91 9703335755. Their dedicated customer support team is ready to assist you with any questions or concerns you may have.

In conclusion, Pxin Monitor Privacy Screen Guards offer the perfect combination of eye protection, privacy, and visual clarity. Invest in your health and privacy today with Pxin, and enjoy a safer and more comfortable digital experience.

Website: https://pxin.in/product-category/monitor-privacy-screen-protectors/

Keywords: monitor privacy screen guard, monitor privacy filter

[pedriscroquettes]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐔𝐘𝐄𝐑𝐎 ✮ FRANCO COLAPINTO

summary. you hated franco for stealing your friend’s seat not knowing that it’d lead to a night of regret.

warnings. enemies to fwb’s, p in v, semi public s3x, major plot twist at the end, & cheating. franco & reader match each other’s FREAK! 18+

a/n. gif by argentinagp! i love latinos!

YOU HAD PROMISED everyone on the paddock that you wouldn’t judge the new driver too quickly. The week leading up to his arrival had been spent reminding yourself that he didn’t steal Logan’s seat on purpose yet you were still mad. You had grown quite fond of the american over the past months and losing a friend had made you bitter. You couldn’t bring yourself to blame Logan for losing his seat so you resorted to the newly arrived brunette.

“He doesn’t bite.” Alex whispers as he notices the glare you’re sending the brunette.

“But he scavenges.” You murmur as the press surrounds the rookie.

“It’s not like he killed Logan.” Alex scoffs.

He didn’t but it felt like he had. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at the way the media had already forgotten about your friend and put Franco on a pedestal. He had just arrived a day ago and already he was flaunting himself as the next Hamilton reincarnate. You turn around too frustrated with yourself for hating him when you didn’t even know him.

“Hola.” A thick accent interrupts your thoughts. You hesitantly turn around only to be met with the guy who took your best friend away. “Those colors don’t suit you.”

“Excuse me?” You replied shockingly wondering where his sense of entitlement came from.

“Ah, lo siento. I meant blue would look better on you.” His cheeks change hues realizing his words came out wrong.

“It would If I cared about Williams.” You smile sarcastically watching as his smile falters. “I’ve gotta go but score at least one point, yeah?”

Franco stays still in disbelief wondering if his comment on your clothes had completely pissed him off. Was his english really that bad? Did he come off too strong? He wondered if the rest of the paddock would hate him or if he was just overreacting.

“Don’t worry about her mate. She’s very reluctant to new people. Give her time.” Alex shrugs.

As the weekend progresses you spend your time between the Alpine garage and the trailers. You were lucky Alex and Lily had agreed to spend the whole weekend with you. You stared at the street as Leo climbed into your lap making you pet him. Practice had just started and you couldn’t help but keep a close eye on Williams. You had began to mindlessly rant to your friends over your encounter with the rookie and how it would most likely take him months to replace Logan.

“When this weekend is over I’m taking you with me to workout because you need to relieve that anger.” Lily laughs.

“No, seriously. You’re acting like he’s committed first degree murder when he had nothing to do with Logan leaving.” Alex sounds concerned.

“Look, I know I sound crazy but I swear there’s something off about him. Plus, y’all do remember the comment he made about me right?” You tried to validate yourself.

“English isn’t his first language it was an honest mistake. Either way he just took that Williams to Q1.” Lily motions towards the screen.

“Whatever. Are we all still on for Sunday?” You asked referring to the plans the drivers had made after the race.

“Obviously. Although we may need to monitor you all night to make sure you don’t damage the new rookie.” The two of them laugh as you sit there annoyed.

The sun was beginning to set as you made your way back to the Alpine garage. Your short white dress was the perfect outfit to keep you cool during the blazing heat of the summer. You were excited to spend the afternoon debriefing with Pierre until you run head first into someone. You try to balance yourself by holding yourself against their chest and as you slowly bring your head up you brace yourself for the apology you’re about to make. But then you see his face and that apology never makes it out your mouth.

“Do you not watch where you’re going?” You scoff at the Williams driver.

“I do. I do it very good actually. Or I wouldn’t be here.” He jokes. “It was you who couldn’t see well or else you would’ve seen me.”

“You’re quite full of yourself aren’t you.” You murmur as you fix your dress.

“People pay me to drive of course I am.” He pulls his sunglasses out his face to look at you directly. He has a glint of confidence in his eye and you can’t help but roll your eyes at his ego.

The two of you stood there alone as practice was long over and the drivers had gone back to their trailers to wind down. Your friends were probably going to ask you why you were late and you couldn’t bear the thought to tell them that you’d gotten into another argument with the rookie. You would get teased for it until the season ended.

“You know this whole hating me thing because you think I stole your friend’s seat, when he lost it because he wasn’t good enough, is so hot.” He smirks.

Any quick remarks you once had were now completely forgotten. His words completely took you by surprise and now you were just confused. Had he taken your witty words as flirting? Had you mistakenly led him on? Or was he just being a prick?

“Though, you could put that mouth to better use.” He says loud enough so only you can hear.

Your cheeks heat up at his comment and you can’t help but feel flustered at his words. Suddenly even the short dress you were wearing wasn’t enough to keep you cool. You instinctively bite your lip as you try to think of anything to say to him but you’re utterly speechless. He’s finally gotten under your skin and he hasn’t even raced yet.

“There’s something genuinely wrong with you.” You say.

“Adiós nena.” He smiles at you before wandering off leaving you all alone to process what had just happened.

The rest of the walk to the Alpine garage is awkward and quick. You try your best to store the encounter with Franco in the back of your mind. You do a bad job at it because his words echo in your mind for the rest of the day. You don’t tell anyone what happened that day because it was weird and also you weren’t even sure what had happened that day.

It’s finally race day and you brush off your white skirt as you walk towards the paddock. You’d meet the girls in the Ferrari garage as Charles had wanted to surprise Alex with a girl’s day. You kept your hands above your eyes to protect them from the sun while subtly trying to ignore the camera flashes headed towards you. As you approach the garages you pause for a little. It had become a tradition for you to greet Alex before any race, a superstition that began when Pierre won the Italian Grand Prix, but now you were hesitant to visit the Williams garage.

You sighed coming up with the decision that an awkward conversation with the Argentine rookie shouldn’t stop you from visiting one of your closest friends. You do a 180° heading straight for the garage. It’s a short walk due to you walking as fast as possible to Alex’s booth. The engineer’s greet you already recognizing your face from the past couple of races. There’s a huge group of familiar faces in the room except the Thai. Your eyes drift around hoping to find him so you’re not late to meet up with your friends but you can’t find Alex anywhere.

“He’s with Lily.” A voice spooks you.

“Franco.” you sigh. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here. The real question should be why are you here?” His condescending tone irks you as he plasters that dumb smirk on his face.

“That’s none of your business.” You reply. “Tell Alex I was looking for him. I’ll be on my way now.”

He grabs your wrist before you can turn on your heels stopping you. You’re now completely face to face with him that you can practically feel his body warmth.

“Something tells me you came looking for me using your friend as an excuse.” He says below a whisper.

“Did your parents teach you that the world revolves around you? Has it ever occurred to you that you are not as important as you think you are?” You scoff. “I’m here for Alex and I would be here for Logan too but you ruined that.”

“Ay, boluda.” He laughs in disbelief. “It seems the only condescending person here is you because guess what? I earned this seat. My parents sold our house so I could be here meanwhile your little friend just spent his trust fund and wasted it.”

You run out of remarks at that. You’d spent all this summer terrorizing him unaware of who Franco really was. Although you weren’t going to apologize, you were too proud for that.

“It’s okay though I wouldn’t expect for a pretty dumb little thing like you to get it.” His voice goes hoarse. Your mind goes blank at his words unable to register his hand ending up on your waist pushing you into him.

Those are the last words he says to you before he abruptly pulls away leaving you alone to process the encounter. Your hand instinctively goes to the necklace on your neck caressing it as you try to regain your breath. You can feel how warm your cheeks are and instantly feel embarrassed at the weird tingly feeling in your stomach. Most importantly you couldn’t believe that out of all the people here Franco is the one who put you in this state.

“Oh, good you’re here! Hopefully I’ll get points today because of you.” Alex smiles at you.

“Go crush them. I have to go though have to meet Gasly before the race. You know go over his strategy for the race.” You stammer trying to find an out of the Williams garage.

“Yeah mhm.” He waves you off. “The two of you better show up to the party! Last one before the break!”

The Ferrari garage erupts into cheers as Charles makes it on the podium again. Alexandria and Lily both scream into your ear as both their boyfriends score points for their teams. Meanwhile you stare blankly as the screen as it shows both Alpine cars outside of the points. Then as if the Universe was making fun of you, Franco shows up on the screen celebrating his P8. You hated him, you hated his confidence, you hated the way he took Logan away from you, but most importantly you hated him because the sweaty messy hair he was showing off made you weak. Your mind instantly replayed this morning’s conversation and you found yourself dizzy.

“Are you okay? Is it cuz you guys didn’t get any points today?” Lily tries to console you.

“No, it’s not that.” You give her a fake smile. “This whole weekend has been kind of too much for me and I think I’m starting to feel the effects. I’m gonna go to the trailers but I’ll see y’all at the party later?”

“Feel better love! Wear something slutty!” Alexandria yells as you walk off.

The pink dress you had picked out for tonight was beginning to annoy you. It was incredibly short so you didn’t know if you should pull it up or down. And knowing Franco would be there made you overthink your idea not wanting to give him the impression that you had dressed up for him. You internally roll your eyes at yourself for even thinking about changing clothes because of a man. That wasn’t you. The effects of the rookie began to scare you.

You don’t waste anymore time heading out the suite and straight to your Uber. It was a short drive and the bouncer didn’t last long finding your name on the list. Lily and Alexandria immediately started screaming at the sight of you and welcomed you into the round table. Most of the drivers were still at the track recovering from their race so thankfully you sat next to Lily with no one to your right. You hoped Alex would hurry up so you’d get to gossip with your friend.

“That rookie ended up with points. I think your hate fueled him.” Lily teases you.

“Are we really going to talk about him, right now?” You sigh.

“He proved you wrong of course we’re gonna talk about it.” She says

“It was pure luck.” You spit out unaware of the brunette walking towards your table.

“What was?” The familiar voice makes you shiver. Lily can’t help but laugh as how wide your eyes go. You slowly turn around to meet the guy that had been torturing you this whole weekend.

“Oh, nothing-” Lily tries to save you.

“Your race today. It was pure luck.” You say defiantly being too stubborn to retract your words.

“Pure luck?” He repeats in disbelief.

“She didn’t mean it-” Lily tries to come to your rescue again.

“Oh, no. I meant it. He’ll be ending up P12 in the next races. I guarantee you won’t see anymore points after this. You’re just here on a test drive and then? Every one will forget you were ever here.” You take a swig of your drink. You don’t even register the malice behind your words being too heated to even comprehend what you’re saying.

His face heats up and his cheeks change hues as he registers your words. You blink and he’s gone. He wanders off to who knows where and it’s then that you register what you’ve told him. You warm up and suddenly you’re dizzy.

“What the fuck?” Lily whispers. “You better go find him and apologize.”

“He started it!” You whine.

“No, you did. You’ve hated him since he arrived when he’s done nothing to you.” Her words make you feel bad. “Now, go find him.”

You stand up adjusting your dress as you scan around the club looking for him. You wander off in hopes of finding him before he leaves. Why was it so hard to find a tall brunette in a crowd of average height people? You give up after five minutes resorting to asking the bartender if he’d seen your ‘friend’ and suddenly you found yourself outside. Franco is leaning against the wall looking at his phone but he’s wearing glasses now.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses.” You squeak afraid that you’d scare him off.

He looks up at you not saying a single word. Your presence pisses him off and he starts to walk away. You follow him to the back of the bar stopping him before the two of you got lost.

“Look, I didn’t mean anything I said. I’m sorry.” You play with the hem of your dress being too afraid to look at him.

“Did he fuck you good?” His face is stern.

“W-what?” His words catch you off guard. The temperature around you somehow getting warmer.

“Logan. Did he fuck you good?” He asks again with a meaner tone. “That’s why you’re mad at me, right?”

What you and Logan did behind closed doors was private, something no one else knew. Something you thought the two of you had managed to keep in secrets. Your cheeks flare up at Franco’s discovery. Were you really so bad at hiding your secrets? If he knew then who else did? You were fucked.

“Franco you don’t know what you’re talking about.” You try so hard to lie. His smirk makes it known that he doesn’t believe you.

One minute you’re lying to his face and the other he’s right in front of you eyeing you down. You can practically feel his body warmth as he invaded your personal space. He had one upped you, again. The innocent facade he had in front of your friends was completely gone.

“Ay, que linda que sos.” His thumb traces your cheek. The touch lingers, your cheeks heating up at the contact. “You’re such a terrible liar.”

“There’s something seriously wrong with you, you know that?” You barely say above a whisper.

“No, there’s something wrong with us.” His hand travels down your cheek to your neck.

That last word throws you off because it’s true, the indescribable pull you felt to him was insane, the two of you were insane. You were tired. You were tired of hiding secrets, Franco’s personality, but most importantly you were tired of pretending. Pretending that you didn’t want Franco. So, you do what you do best when you’re tired. You relieve yourself. You pull Franco by the shirt and kiss him ignoring the feel of his glasses hitting your face. He quickly turns the two of you around your back hitting the wall allowing for balance.

The two of you barely pull apart for air losing yourselves in the kisses. His brunette curls find their way into your fingers while his hands sit perfectly on your waist. The kiss grows heated as you pull him closer to you, feeling him. His hand begins to wander down your thighs, pulling them apart and wrapping your leg around his waist. You can feel yourself grow wetter at the new position and then you remember that your friends were still waiting for you.

“Franco, wait.” You groan.

“What? What happened?” He pulls away quickly.

“Everyone else is still waiting for us. You need to be…” You pause debating if this was really a good idea but had anything you’d done lately been a good idea? “Quick.”

He takes that as a challenge immediately pulling you in for a kiss again. The kiss is messy and needy with your hands in his hair and his hands massaging the inside of your thighs. The cool breeze hitting your exposed skin as he lifted your dress up. The roughness of the wall is soon forgotten as he brings his fingers down to your thighs, gliding them teasingly before placing them on your clothed core.

You can’t resist the groans that escape your throat as his cold fingers come in contact with your core. It’d been many weekends since anyone had touched you like this. He swallows your noises with his mouth as he kisses you. Your hands grip his arms as he begins to move his fingers around your folds, spreading your wetness. You remember that it’s been a while since the two of you walked outside and pull his fingers away.

“Franco. We don’t have time.” You gasp in between kisses.

He picks you up adjusting you against the wall while you dig your hands into the hem of his boxers. It doesn’t take long for your hands to venture down and feel him. Your stomach flutters at his size and how he feels. He quickly pulls you away before placing his tip near your entrance. Your morals long gone you grind on him wanting to feel anything. It’s pathetic the way you’ve gone from wanting him out of the sport to wanting him inside you and he notices it too by the way he smirks at you.

You’re about to lash out when he starts entering you slowly. If it wasn’t for him holding you then you’d have lost your balance already at the intrusion. He stills himself waiting for you to adjust to the new feeling. When he notices that you’re ready he pulls out before thrusting back into you, this time filling you to the hilt. It was almost as if he fit perfectly inside you.

“Fuck.” He groans as he fills you completely.

You’re not quite sure anyone’s ever felt so disgusting. You don’t even try to contain your moans as he continuously thrusts into you at a fervent pace. He feels so good inside you hitting spots no one else had before. His fingers leave mark on your hips as you take him fully. He looks down to where the two of you are connected and audibly groans at how well you’re taking him.

“Oh my god.” You whine as he increases his speed.

His hands come back done to your folds rubbing them in circles as he tries to pleasure you even more. Your hand joins his showing him where you need him the most. You can feel your slick coating his dick as he rubbed you. You begin to feel a familiar knot in your stomach as he fucks you into the wall. His hand cups your jaw as he pulls you into a long sloppy kiss.

It doesn’t take long after for you to come undone around him, your walls squeezing him as you reach your peak. He won’t last long with the feeling of you milking him. Soon enough he’s coming inside you, his warm cum filling you up. The sight of the two of you is disgusting and nasty.

The two of you break away from each other and catch your breaths. You lower your dress back down while Franco takes his glasses off to clean them. You check yourself for any runny mascara, or smudge lipstick, and even run your hands through your hair making sure you don’t look insane.

“We should head inside.” You murmur.

“We’re not gonna talk about this?” He scoffs.

“There’s nothing to talk about Franco. At least not know when everyone’s waiting for us.” You scold him. “We’ll talk next weekend.”

You head towards the bathroom first, Franco surprisingly waiting for you outside. The two of you walk in within a minute difference a smile adorning both your faces. At least until you spot Pierre next to Lily and you’re brought back to reality. You don’t waste time running towards the frenchman hugging him as you sit right next to him. Franco can’t help but stare at you in confusion as he notices Pierre’s hand trail too far down when hugging you. But then he spots it. Pierre wearing an identical necklace to yours but instead of a P it adorned your initial. His eyes go wide.

“I see you and my girlfriend have finally made up.” Pierre greets him.

“Your girlfriend?” His demeanor changes with the news. “I didn’t know.”

Pierre begins to explain how the two of you don’t like to be very public about your relationship. You can visibly see the moment in which Franco’s face goes pale. The next few weeks for you are hard racing between the Alpine garage and your girlfriends. Not to mention the quick pit stops to the Williams garage to wish Alex good luck. It’s a shame you get very little time with the rookie but he makes it work. In the end you really hope he doesn’t get a seat for next year, you can’t keep doing this.

[esote-rika]

derision as prelude to desire | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Waldorf!Reader

Category: smut 18+ MDNI, fluff if you squint

Summary: Spencer Reid’s new coworker is mean but one night doing overtime together leads to the two of them bonding.

Content: glasses!Spencer, workplace rivals if you squint, Spencer Reid vs technology, reader is kind of mean and based on Blair Waldorf (in background, looks, and personality), Spencer is petty, his mind is in the GUTTER, use of eye drops, making out, sub!Spencer, fingering, oral (male receiving), whining and begging glasses!Spencer. Let’s pretend the BAU doesn’t have any CCTV cameras for this one m’kay thanks

Word count: 3.6k

A/N: This is an ITCH in my brain, like I’ve been thinking about a Spencer Reid x Blair Waldorf crackship since August last year it’s actually concerning. One of my favorite ship dynamics is loser boy x popular girl, so it makes sense. Still in second person to make it immersive. This isn’t a crossover, so there will be no spoilers for Gossip Girl. The reader's personality, looks and background are just based on Blair. Let me know if you want to read more of this dynamic because I have so many ideas for it oh my god. I hope you enjoy it!

Spencer Reid often muses on the series of events that had brought you from the streets of the Upper East Side to work in Quantico, Virginia. It would be easy to ask, of course, or even have Penelope do a quick background check on you, but he’s made a game of it instead, piecing together what he knows of your history, filling in the blanks of what would have gone wrong, what decisions you would have taken, in order to leave the privileged life you led and enter public service.

As far as he had been concerned, you don’t belong anywhere near the FBI, let alone the BAU. Spoiled, rich, with a mean streak he is all too familiar with from his time in school.  

He had been so sure you wouldn’t fit in when you first joined the team. You had been, and continue to be, perfectly made, every single hair shiny and curled just so, heels always so shiny and matching whatever designer bag you have slung over your shoulder. Everything about you screams high maintenance, and his profiler instincts point to several things: uncooperative, wants everything handed to you, ditzy.

But then you had shown your cards, had proved his assessment so wrong and he could never forgive you for the sting of that defeat.

It doesn’t help that you seem to enjoy riling him up as well. Every case is an opportunity to one up him, an attempt to claim his spot and it’s unfair. You already have everything, yet you still refuse to yield the title of team genius to him, the one thing he can cling to, the thing he knows is his. 

He is still glowering today, four months into your employment, passive aggressively hitting the keys on his keyboard. He’s a slow typist, and he’d agreed to write Morgan’s reports for him this week, a favor between friends he’s now beginning to regret. You are the only one keeping him company. The rest of the team has already left hours ago, but you’re typing away at your desk, fingers flying through the keyboard without even a glance. His own skills seem laughable in comparison, going at the keys one by one, with the speed of an old grandparent squinting over a typewriter instead of a man in his twenties. 

“Take a picture, Reid, it’ll last longer.”

He blinks, forcing his eyes back to the monitor. “You’re so original.” he mutters, pushing his glasses up to nestle on top of his head. He rubs his eyes, already despising the glare of the screen.

“Aw, what, the genius can’t handle a little blue light?”

He doesn’t bother with a response, blinking at the screen instead. The sooner he can get this done, the sooner he can leave. Sounds of tapping keys fill the air again, but he stops after a few moments again, rubbing at his eyes. He hears a sigh, and then your voice again, haughty but somehow concerned.

“You’re not supposed to rub your eyes, it makes it worse.” 

“I know,” he grumbles, “I don’t need you lecturing me about the importance of eye health.”

“It seems like you do, since you’re still doing it.” you reply derisively. He’d be rolling his eyes if he isn’t too busy rubbing them.

“Here,” you say, “Catch.”

Confused, he lifts his head, only to flinch as something hurls right at him. “What-” it hits his desk, then bounces off.

“Oh, look what you’ve done, genius.”

“You threw it at me.” his lips are pulled into a tight line of disapproval, “A head’s up would have been nice.”

“I did, genius, I said catch. You just have the reflexes of an eighty year old.” your voice is tinged with annoyance.

To his surprise, you’re up and walking to his desk, heels echoing in the empty bullpen. He watches as you gingerly kneel on the ground, bending down, and his eyes grow wide. The image of you bent down like this is surprisingly enticing, your skirt straining against the soft curve of your hips, hair falling down your shoulders like a curtain of the night sky. You’ve gotten close enough that he can smell your perfume, something citrusy and clean, and he subconsciously leans closer.

Mouth dry, he manages to croak out, “What are you doing?”

“Trying to find the damn eye drops.” you snap, an arm extending towards him and for a moment he holds his breath, waiting for contact. Instead, you grab something from the ground, “There it is.” 

He watches as you straighten, lifting your torso upright, but still kneeling in front of him. An image flashes through his mind, your face between his thighs, those large eyes staring up at him, but he banishes it quickly lest his thoughts begin to stir his body. 

“Here, these should help.” You say, finally standing back up and placing the tiny bottle on his desk. A filthy part of him wishes you’d get back on your knees. He catches the tilt of your head, the confusion in your eyes, “Reid. Are you still with me? Has your brain finally short circuited from all those statistics?”

Oh his brain is short circuiting, all right, just from a different cause.

“I’m - yeah.” he replies, and then he rattles off the first thought his frazzled mind could come up with, “Did you know some people have used eye drops as a method for murder? Not these ones, but there are specific brands that contain—”

“Tetrahydrozoline,” you finish for him, “Yeah, I know.”

He blinks. There you go again, proving your intellect, your value, somehow matching his even though he’s pretty sure you are no genius, not in the same way he is. Still, perhaps it’s the late night, or your offer of relief, but the sting of being bested doesn’t resonate tonight. A softer feeling unfurls in his chest, something warm and addictive, something like understanding. He smiles, “That’s right.”

You nod, curls spilling over your shoulders again, “Mhm. Well… These are for your eyes, I’m not trying to poison you.”

“Wouldn’t put it past you.”

A scoff, “Please, I’m not dumb enough to attempt murder in the office.”

His brows lift and he finds himself grinning, “So you’ve thought about it?”

“I will neither deny nor confirm.” you’re smiling now too, and he lets his eyes roam over the pretty lines of your face, memorizing how lovely you look in this moment, guards lowered and smiling at him with ease. He thinks he sees something flash in those pretty eyes of yours but he’s not sure. Reading people has never been his strong suit, regardless of his profession.

“Come on, I’ll help you.” you gesture at his glasses, and he immediately obeys, pushing it back up to nestle on his hair. He holds his breath as you come closer, bites his lips when your hand comes to his chin. It’s soft, unbelievably gentle, and you tilt his head back. From this angle, he can see the way your lashes curl, the soft hint of shimmer swept across your lids. Eyeshadow, he remembers from what Penelope and JJ have told him, and it highlights the shape of your eyes, making them appear brighter.  

He blinks as coolness hits his eye, and then you’re tilting his head to the other side, and he’s trying not to panic, trying not to be a creep, but in reality, he hasn’t been this close, this intimate to a woman in so long that it’s messing up his ability to inhale, to think, to function. Your hair flutters gently around his face, and the scent of citrus is stronger now, heady, and he feels so light headed he’s afraid he’ll faint.

The same coolness hits the other eye, and before you can pull away, before he can think it through, he’s curling his own hand over your wrist. He lifts it up, pressing a kiss to the inside of your palm, admonishing any thoughts of germs and bacteria, and instead relishing at the tender flesh beneath his lips. He kisses your palm again, lips gently tracing the lines, before moving down to the inside of your wrist, before pausing.

He dares to peer up, waiting for a reprimand, a cutting sentence that would have him lashing back at you, but there’s none. There it is again, the flicker in your eyes, and now he finally knows the word to attach to it: desire.

He kisses the inside of your wrist again, and feels you pulse fluttering beneath his lips. Fast, to his surprise, almost matching the quick succession of thudding in his chest. 

“Reid,” you whisper, and he waits again, allows you time to pull away. You don’t, but he’s apprehensive now, afraid he’s crossed a boundary. He definitely has, but he would do it again if you express the desire to do so, to tumble into whatever this is with him. He just needs confirmation, one verbal acknowledgement that you want this too, because he doesn’t trust his ability to read you yet, not when he’s spent so much time despising you.

But you’re just looking at him, and the embarrassment is almost painful. His cheeks heat up, and he drops your hand.

“I’m sorry.” he murmurs, sinking back on his seat. He’s about to turn to his monitor, intent to forget about this, forget everything even though his memory would make that impossible, but he finds his face being tilted up again, cradled between impossibly soft hands, and then there’s lips against his own, your lips, oh god you are kissing him.

He wraps his arms around your waist, following the movement of your mouth to the best of his limited ability. Your teeth dig into his bottom lip and he lets out an involuntary whimper, his body jerking at the sting. He feels you smiling against his mouth, cocky even in the midst of a kiss, in the midst of the most heated kiss he’s had since - since - he can’t even remember her, the brief dalliance he had with an actress once upon a time, because all he can think of is your mouth, and your hands, nails scratching at his scalp, and every single thought is expelled from his mind when you climb on his lap.

“God,” he moans in between kisses, his breaths ragged, but he would gladly drown in you before stopping.

“Not god,” you correct him and nip at his lower lip with more force this time.

“Mhm.” he whines, and kisses you again, shifting so you’re more comfortable on his lap. He wonders if the chair is creaking from your combined weight, but then you’re grinding directly on his cock and he’s lost in a haze of white hot pleasure. 

Apparently, Spencer Reid cannot multitask, because his lips fall slack as you grind against his hardening cock. Your laughter tinkles in his ear, before your mouth latches on his jaw, down his neck, open and wet and sticky. He knows you said you aren’t god, and he’s never been religious, but he swears this must be heaven. Fitting too, in the same way he’s never thought he’d reach some place he doesn’t even believe in, he’s also never thought he would have you—beautiful, infuriating, untouchable you—grinding on his lap with a desperation that borders frenzy.

Recognizing that your need burns you just as his is making him reckless, he manages to whisper, “Tell me— tell me what to do. How do I make you feel good?”

You giggle, taking one of his hands away from your waist and leading it under your skirt. The fabric has bunched up over your thighs, and he grips the smooth flesh greedily. But you have other ideas, and he’s eager to learn, so he lets you move his hand higher, until the tips of his fingers brush against moist fabric.

His mouth goes dry. You’ve soaked through your panties. 

“Like this?” he dips his fingers past the lace, his mouth falling open at the slick that’s gathered at your core. You have your face buried at his neck, lips and tongue still assaulting the tender skin there, but he feels you nod, feels the shudder that runs through you, and he takes those as a good sign. His touch is exploratory, gentle, fueled by an intoxication over the fact that you’re here and you’re enjoying it, you’re making those sounds for him. 

He’s awestruck rather than cocky, and when he slides his fingers into your pussy, he’s immediately trying to figure out a rhythm that would draw out those pretty noises from your lips. When he finds it, he sticks to it, greedily drinking in your moans, no matter how muffled they are against his neck.

There’s a sense of degeneracy to this whole thing. Fingering his coworker in the office, right there on his desk, he could get fired should this get out, they both could. Still, he’s never truly had anyone want him so unabashedly and he simply cannot stop. You had been the one to kiss him, after all, the lines in the sand had been completely trampled by the time you had climbed on his lap. 

“You feel so good,” you whisper, and he feels you move, riding his hand shamelessly, and he has to bite your shoulder to keep himself from whining again. The sight alone nearly undoes him, and you’ve barely done anything. He’s been actively providing you with stimulation this whole time, fucking you with his fingers relentlessly, and somehow, he wouldn’t change a single thing. 

“Yeah?” he asks, pupils blown wide, wanting, needing the assurance that he’s doing good, he’s making you feel good.

“Yes, oh fuck, yes!” your voice grows sharper as he curls his fingers with every thrust. After a few moments of fumbling with your panties, his thumb presses against your clit and he’s rewarded by another groan from you. 

He draws figure eights against your slick core, finding a rhythm that has you tugging at his hair wildly, and he’s whispering into your ear, pleading, “That’s it, please come for me, please, let me see how good you feel, please, please—”

“Spencer!” you groan, and then you’re shuddering in his lap, and his fingers down to his knuckles are wet with your slick. 

He grins, helping you through your orgasm, pressing kisses to your hair, the FBI issued office chair creaking so much he’s afraid the two of you would break it if you don’t stop. The image is hilarious in its absurdity, making his grin widen, and you must have taken it for arrogance because he feels a slight smack on his shoulder.

“Don’t get cocky.” you mutter.

He takes you in, the flushed cheeks and hazy eyes, mascara now smudged along your lash lines, and he’s reverential instead of arrogant, grateful that he has brought someone so stunning and capable to the throes of pleasure, has taken you apart so much you’ve ruined your normally perfect facade. 

“You’re beautiful.” he tells you, his own eyes glistening with an unfocused daze. You roll your eyes and shake your head, and he’s seized with a desire to keep you hear and bury his fingers inside you over and over again until you believe him.

“Your turn.” You chuckle, hands unwinding from his neck and travelling down the length of his abdomen, coming to the buckle on his belt.

“Wait, I—uh,” he turns beet red once again, clearing his throat, “Are you on the pill? I don’t have—”

You tilt your head, as if the idea of a man walking around without a condom is foreign. Perhaps it is, but Spencer simply never assumed he would have any use for it. He turns away, teeth worrying his lower lip, but you pull his face to you again.

“I have hands.” you say as you resume undoing his pants. You shift, then slink away from him, and he whines at the loss of your warmth, but he sees you on your knees once again, and this time it’s not just his brain making up lewd, inappropriate thoughts, “And a mouth.”

“Y-you really don’t have to.”

“I know,” you grin, pretty as the devil and twice as tempting, and as your hands wrap around his engorged length, thumb circling at the tip, “But how can I not, when you’re this pretty?”

He blacks out, he swears he does, there’s no way this isn’t a perverted dream, no way that you’re actually stroking up and down his throbbing cock. Somehow he comes to, only to feel a warmth, a wetness, enveloping the swollen tip, and his hips buck up instinctively. He whines when your hands push at his thighs, holding him in place. 

“Please,” he gasps, babbles, really, “Please, oh god, that feels so good.” 

You take him further down and he throws his head back so violently the glasses slip past his ears and clatter onto the floor. He feels your laughter vibrating against his cock and it almost has him keening. He whines, wriggles against your hold with no real desire to break free. He finds that likes the force of your hands on him, nails leaving harsh indents on his flesh as he struggles. The pain is delicious, heightening his already frazzled senses.

You bob your head up and down, your hair swaying gently, and he manages to will his hands to move, gathering the soft tresses in his hand so they won’t impede your movement. Your eyes flicker up, meet his own, and he swears there’s a thank you in the glint of them. He cannot do anything else. 

Slack jawed, he watches you hollow your cheeks, saliva dripping down the sides of your mouth as you give him the best head he’s ever experienced. Never mind that it’s his first one, and that he doesn’t have a point of comparison. He’s convinced this is the best, you are the best, and he’s never been more thankful for his eidetic memory until this night, knowing that he cannot, will never, ever forget the way you look as you knelt down and sucked his cock like you were being paid to do it. 

“God, you’re so pretty, oh my god, yes, just like that, please, please, yes.” he’s aware that he’s whining, and there’s an amused twinkle in your eye that tells him he would never hear the end of this after. 

He knows you well enough to know that you would dangle this over his head any chance you get, that you aren’t above playing dirty. Instead of dread, it makes his stomach roil with another gush of desire, and he knows that that is even more concerning than whatever you were going to do.

(It never occurs to him to do the same, that he could tease you back and point out that he has had you on your knees and sucking on his cock like you were made for it simply because his brain cannot fathom ever associating the sight of you kneeling before him as something to be ashamed of.)

He’s drawn from his thoughts as he feels your hands cupping his balls, stimulating an entirely new area that has him thrusting up. He feels his cock brush against the back of your throat, and he pulls back immediately, eyes wide with worry as you gag around his length.

“Oh god, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, baby you can stop if—”

But you do it again, soldiering past your gag reflex and taking him all the way, and he can hear someone saying oh fuck oh fuck I’m cumming agh, please, I’m cumming, and he thinks its his own voice but he’s unsure. His eyes are squeezed shut, colors exploding behind his lids as he feels your tongue swirling over and over his sensitive cock, before the cool air surrounds it, telling him you’ve stopped completely.

When he opens his eyes, you have your head on his thigh, cheek pressed against the fabric, a lazy smile on your ruined lips.

“God,” he whispers, reaching for you, wanting you close, “That was—wow, you—come here, please.”

He watches as a flicker of surprise flits over your face, before you mask it with a giggle, “Good?” you murmur, tucking his soft cock into his pants before climbing on his lap again.

“Incredible.” He holds you tight, your slick only half dry on his fingers, the taste of him still on your tongue, “You’re incredible.”

You’re quiet, contemplative, and he presses a kiss to your neck, wanting to bring you out of whatever funk you’ve gone into, “Hey, what is it?” He’s almost terrified of the answer, worried you would pull away and leave him cold.

“I just didn’t think you’d be a cuddler.” you reply, eventually sinking into his arms. Your voice is soft when you say, “Most men aren’t.”

The thought of her having experiences doesn’t bother him; it’s the fact that they callously left her after that makes him tighten his hold on her. “I’m sorry.”

“For the entirety of shitty men? You’d need more apologies than that,” you chuckle, fingers absently curling into his hair, “But thank you. This is— this is nice.”

“It is,” Spencer nods, leaning into your touch, eyes shut.

“You lost your glasses.”

“I did.”

Your laughter fills the air, “Hey, are you sleepy? You still have Morgan’s reports to finish.”

His eyes flutter open, a sheepish smile on his lips, “Why’d you have to remind me?”

“Because the sooner you finish it, the sooner we can do this again.”

Spencer laughs, kissing your shoulder as he relents, “All right, all right.” That’s more than enough incentive to brave staring at the monitor again.

[osaemu]

GOJO SATORU: ❛❛ THE CUTEST COUPLE ON THE INTERNET! ❜❜

.ೃ࿐ streamer!au: what happens when you flirt with one of his many rivals?

contents: fem!reader. playful jealousy, it's nothin' serious. toji flirts with you <3 chat continues to make fun of satoru + fortnite slander. pretty short but uh... anyways.

author's note: live laugh love streamer!gojo

"c'mon, satoru," suguru drawls, smiling at your boyfriend through the screen. "how'd you get eliminated so fast? you must've set a world record," he teases, poking fun at the way satoru completely bombed the last round.

you snicker from your spot on satoru's bed, and he turns and sticks his tongue out at you. satoru had convinced you to come over just a couple minutes ago, and any hope you had of doing your homework in peace flew out the window the moment he went live. 

"shut up," satoru huffs, turning back to his monitor and scrunching up his nose at suguru. the two are close enough for them to banter and insult each other without any fear of resentment. suguru laughs in response, velvety voice resulting in a burst of heart emojis from the comments.

"well, i gotta go," suguru sighs, leaning back in his dark, plush chair. he smiles and waves with a reminder of when his next stream will be before signing off. 

satoru spins around in his chair a couple times and scrunches up his face at the screen. "why are you guys still here?" he asks, ruffling his hair and raising an eyebrow. "y'wanna see my girlfriend again or something?"

the chat explodes with a flurry of yes's, so satoru swivels his chair around and looks straight at you. he looks at you expectantly, opening his arms and beckoning you. "c'mere, sweetheart," he says, voice singsongy and light.

"you're so annoying," you mumble, rolling over and hopping off his bed.

"and i'm all yours," satoru replies immediately, shooting you a cheeky smile. 

whenever you call him annoying or stupid or a clueless idiot, satoru responds the same way every time. and both of you know that you certainly can't do much better than your sweetheart of a boyfriend, even if he is the brattiest boy you know.

you run your fingers through your hair and walk over to him, resting your chin on his shoulder and waving at his camera. "hey guys," you say with a smile. satoru turns to his head to kiss your cheek affectionately, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you closer.

as you lean into satoru's embrace, you scan the comments. most of them are either hi's and hello's, but a select few make you laugh.

yuuji-itadori: they make me feel so single :( 

inumaki: brb im about to violently throw up

toji-fushiguro: she can do so much better tbh

satoru scoffs at the last two comments, jutting his chin out and glaring at the screen. "why are you two still here?" he huffs, pointing at the camera and narrowing his eyes. the hand on your waist tightens as satoru pulls you into his lap. "inumaki, don't you have a fortnite round to lose? and you, toji, i'm this close to blocking you from my streams!" he grumbles. 

the chat explodes with various expressions of laughter, and you can't help but giggle at the responses satoru's jibes get.

inumaki: kys

inumaki: whats wrong with playing fortnite??? most fire game ever fym

toji-fushiguro: im not here for u loser

satoru mimicks inumaki with a high-pitched voice and goes on a minute-long tangent of why fortnite is the one of the shittiest games ever, and eventually inuaki chooses to retreat with a last snarky comment before he disappears. then, your riled-up boyfriend turns on toji.

"if you're not here for me, who could you possibly be here for?" satoru snorts, resting his chin on the top of your head. his hands intertwine as he wraps his arms around you snugly, securing you on his lap.

the next message from toji catches you and satoru off-guard, but your reactions are entirely different. you laugh and smile bashfully, while satoru nearly knocks you off of him when he yells "what?!"

toji-fushiguro: i'm here for your pretty gf duh

before satoru can fire a thousand insults toji's way, you reach up and clasp your hand over his mouth. your boyfriend's eyes widen in the reflection of his monitor, and you have to suppress the urge to ruffle his hair and kiss him stupid. sure, you'll probably make out with him after the stream, but you think that it'd be even more fun to mess with him first.

"aw, you think i'm pretty?" you ask playfully, directing your words at toji. "i've seen you around," you muse, twirling a strand of hair around your finger with the hand not covering satoru's mouth. you smile coyly at the screen before continuing, "you're not so bad yourself, honestly."

satoru whines incredulously against your hand, and you can't suppress the laugh that slips past your lips. he bounces his foot on the floor impatiently, and eventually he reaches around you and quickly presses a couple buttons to end the stream. "baby, i love you but sometimes you drive me crazy," he grumbles, hoisting you over his shoulder as he stands up. 

"let me go!"

"okay!" he replies, dropping you on his bed with a cheeky smile. satoru's eyes narrow as he watches you scramble to sit up, and you puff up your cheeks indignantly. satoru plops down next to you and pulls you into his chest, face barely an inch away from yours.

"what was that?!" satoru whines, glaring at you sullenly. he tugs at the bottom of your shirt and juts out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout.  

"satoru, are you jealous?" you snicker, leaning in and kissing his nose. he scrunches his face up and frowns, but the corners of his mouth seem to tilt upwards. satoru pulls you into a kiss and holds you there for a second, smiling against your lips. 

"no," satoru huffs, rolling his eyes. "i'm hotter than him, and i'm not a total asshole." he wraps his arms around your waist and nudges your cheek with his nose, clear blue eyes focused on your lips. 

"true," you agree, wrapping your arms around his neck and melting into his embrace. satoru really is the best boyfriend you could ask for—everything about the two of you just works.

satoru pinches you gently and kisses your nose. "say that you love me."

you smile and close your eyes, suddenly more relaxed than you've been in the last couple days. "of course i love you, dummy."

"love you more, cheate— ow, i'm kidding, i'm kidding!"