#neon hover effect

[divinector]

Neon Glow Button hover

[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.

[sermalatenightsnack]

You vs. Hawks: Who’s Japan’s Sweetheart, Really?

Episode 1

SUMMARY: What if there was another pro hero on the rise—just as fast, flirty, and fan-favorite as Hawks? You didn’t ask for the spotlight war, but now you’re in it. From a chance meeting behind a restaurant dumpster to joint missions and viral interviews, the world can’t stop watching Japan’s “favorite rivalry.” Too bad you’re starting to enjoy the game. TAGLINE: Fem!reader. Mentions of sexiual tension. Slow burn. Two rising stars. One too many cameras. And absolutely no rivalry feelings whatsoever.

Based on this blurb

A small drabble before you met him here

Unfinished series!

A/N first time writing a series. And editing on tumbler is a pain.

An overly televised disaster waiting to happen.

You never meant to become a household name. Not really. Not in the way that came with hashtags, interviews, or limited-edition soda cans with your face on them.

But somewhere between that rescue in Shibuya and the time you called Hawks “Featherboy” live on national television, you became the headline.

And unfortunately for you, so did he.

The Pro Hero scene was never quiet, but ever since you showed up, it’s been chaos. Not villain-related chaos---PR chaos. Tabloids live for it. Paparazzi stalk rooftops just to catch one of your now-famous aerial tag matches. The internet has been divided into two camps:

#Team(Hero Name) — “They’re hot, unbothered, and can do a perfect barrel roll in three-inch platform boots.”

#TeamHawks — “He’s iconic, strategic, and literally saved Japan. Let’s not forget the wings, people.”

#(Hero Name)hawksTruthers — “Just kiss already.”

Your agency says you’re good for each other’s image. You call it “brand beef.” Hawks calls it “free entertainment.”

And today, like clockwork, you land next to him on top of a burning building with a sigh.

“Don’t tell me you were waiting for me,” you say, brushing soot off your sleeve.

He grins. “Wouldn’t dream of stealing your spotlight.”

“You couldn’t if you tried.”

“Oh? Then what do you call this?” He gestures to the hovering drones, all centered on the two of you like it’s a red carpet and not, you know, a potential hostage situation.

You smirk. “I call it Tuesday.”

[SMASH CUT TO: A neon-lit studio set with a spinning title card]

“WHO’S WINNING THE (HERO NAME) VS HAWKS RIVALRY?”

~~~An Exclusive HeroWatch! Segment (Now in 4K UltraDrama)

[Cue dramatic music: overproduced strings and fake wind FX]

[Clips play rapid-fire: you diving off a skyscraper mid-rescue, Hawks laughing on a late-night show, the two of you shoulder-bumping post-mission like it was nothing.]

[Cut to: a host with aggressively styled hair and too much eyeliner.]

HOST (grinning at the camera):

“Two top pros. One public stage. Endless sexual tension---I mean rivalry. We asked you, the people, whose side you're on!”

[Insert “Street Interviews” section. Microphone, shaky camera, chaos.]

INTERVIEWEE 1 (teen with glitter stickers on their cheeks):

“(Hero Name)’s literally my role model. They once did a double corkscrew flip just to grab a kitten off a ledge. Hawks could never.”

INTERVIEWEE 2 (older man in a hawks hoodie):

“Hawks is practical. Sharp. Efficient. (Hero Name)’s cool, sure, but they do too much sometimes. Gotta reel it in.”

INTERVIEWEE 3 (couple sharing one hawks/skyline-themed umbrella):

“We love them both, but let’s be real---those two are flirting. Right? Like, it’s not just us, right???”

[Cut back to studio. Dramatic spin on the host’s chair.]

HOST (leaning forward like this is serious journalism):

“HeroWatch polls show a 50/50 split---nationwide. The tension’s high. The fans are louder than ever. And with another joint mission scheduled next week...”

[Cue ominous thunder sound effect]

HOST (grinning wide):

“...someone’s feathers are gonna get ruffled.”

[Roll credits. Blurry freeze-frame of you and Hawks dodging debris, mid-sassy banter.]

...

You were in your apartment. Dim lighting. A half-empty takeout box that sat on your lap as the TV plays a little too loud in the background.

You didn’t mean to watch it.

In fact, you were planning to ignore it entirely. Just like you ignored the trending hashtags, the fan art, the shipping threads, the conspiracy theories about your “lingering stares,” and the video essay titled “Why Hawks and (Hero Name) Are the Next Great Rivalry/Enemies-to-Lovers Arc” that had over 2 million views.

But the second your name dropped in the ad break--“Next up: Why Japan can’t choose between (Hero Name) and Hawks!”--you froze mid-bite and instinctively hit the volume.

And now you're here. Slumped on your couch, squinting at your TV in exhausted disbelief as glittery-eyed teenagers argue over your combat flips and some dude in a Hawks hoodie says you're "too much."

What the hell is this.

You cover your face with one hand, fingers dragging down over your mouth, and exhale a slow, bone-deep sigh.

How did it get this far?

Seriously. How.

Your mind flickers back---past the screaming headlines, the fanbase wars, the constant speculation---to the moment this entire circus began. Not in a battlefield. Not in a press conference. But behind a dumpy soba restaurant with a broken neon sign.

You remember it too clearly.

One year ago. Night. Rain. You’re walking home after patrol, minding your business.

It was supposed to be a quiet detour. Just you, your umbrella, and the sound of wet gravel under your boots.

And then you heard it. Rustling. Cursing. Muffled grunts.

You paused, narrowed your eyes down the alleyway beside the soba shop. A pair of wings---red, twitching midair. “Whoever” they belonged to was halfway into a garbage bin, legs kicking wildly like an overturned turtle.

You tilted your head.

“…Hey,” you called, cautious. “You alright?”

No answer.

“Do you need help?” you tried again. “Or are you... trading drugs in there?”

The person froze.

Then---WHUMP.

A head popped out. Feathered blond hair, ruffled and speckled with rice grains. Wide amber eyes blinking at you. A noodle stuck to his cheek.

You blinked back.

“…You’re not homeless, are you?” you asked.

He grinned, upside-down. “Nah. Just forgot my phone.”

You stared at him. Then at the bin. Then at him again.

“Your phone,” you repeated slowly. “In the trash.”

“Yep. Dropped it in while tossing leftovers. Pretty dumb, huh?”

That was the first time you saw him in person. Pro Hero #2. Elbow-deep in soup-stained napkins and laughing like this wasn’t the most ridiculous introduction imaginable.

You couldn’t stop thinking about it for days.

But in the moment you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little thrown.

Not because it was Hawks---though yeah, Hawks. Pro Hero #2. The walking, talking soundbite machine with feathers and fame on his side.

No, what got you was how you met him.

Not at a press event. Not during some high-octane hero team-up. No slow-mo action sequence, no cameras, no scripted “Hey, aren’t you---?” moment.

Just you. And him. And a dumpster.

And the second that spiky mop of blonde hair popped out of the trash, you had a choice to make.

Drop the act---or double down.

You picked the latter, obviously.

Because your public image? The easy smiles, unbothered, cool-in-every-storm type? That had taken work. You had fans who’d never seen you sweat, who praised your every witty comeback and gravity-defying save. You couldn’t just stutter in front of the nation’s golden boy because he happened to be rummaging for his phone behind a soba shop.

So you leaned a hip against the wall, arms crossed, gave him a half-lidded stare like he wasn’t half-covered in pickled ginger.

“…You usually go dumpster diving on your nights off?” you asked, tone smooth like you'd planned the question three days in advance.

He looked up at you, eyes glinting, mouth curved. “Only on Mondays. Tuesdays are for alley yoga.”

You snorted. Couldn’t help it.

“So you are Hawks.”

He hopped out like it was nothing, brushed some seaweed off his jacket, and gave you that exact smirk you'd seen a hundred times in interviews. “Guilty. And you’re (Hero Name), right? The fans think we’d look good together.”

That---that---he just went straight to the point... Huh.

You barely managed a shrug. “Haven’t even bought me dinner.”

His eyes crinkled, amused. “Soba counts, if you don’t mind it reheated.”

You played it off with a scoff and a casual look away, pretending like you're not just now realising how much he wasn't just just like you...He was just like you---too much like you. The jokes was like meeting a mirror you weren’t sure you wanted to look into.

But that was the game, right? Keep the mask on. Keep it smooth. Never let them see you break.

Even when they catch you off guard behind a restaurant and toss your whole online persona into the trash with a wink and a noodle on their face.

You stayed leaning on the wall, playing around with what words to say next in your head‚ though your mind was already backtracking to what he just said---“The fans think we’d look good together.” Did he just open with that? No hello? No preamble?

You glanced him up and down, from the noodle on his shoulder to the way his wings rustled behind him like they had their own amused rhythm.

“Didn’t think you were the type to check your QRTs,” you said, arching a brow.

“I’m not,” he replied, flashing a grin that was just a little too satisfied. “But my agency is. They keep a whole folder. HeroWatch calls it ‘The Flirt Wars.’ You’ve got good numbers.”

You exhaled sharply, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “You’re kidding.”

“Dead serious. You’ve got better reaction stats than I do. Stronger pull with the 18–24 crowd.”

He said it like he was proud of you. Like this was some kind of twisted influencer competition and you’d just unlocked a new tier.

You tilted your head. “So what, you track me down behind a soba place to... what? Compare analytics?”

He shrugged. “I was hungry. You were here. Felt like fate.”

“Right,” you muttered. “Fate with a side of trash juice.”

Hawks snorted and finally started fixing himself up, flicking rice grains off his gloves and straightening the straps of his jacket like he hadn’t just been neck-deep in restaurant garbage. “You’re shorter than I thought.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He gestured lazily with one wing. “You come off taller online. More... towering menace with killer cheekbones. Reality’s got softer edges.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That your way of flirting, or just a weird insult?”

“Why not both?”

And there he flashed a grin---that grin. The kind that made it feel like you were the one being toyed with, like you were a punchline he already knew the end to.

But two could play that game.

You pushed off the wall and took a slow step forward, letting your eyes trail over him with deliberate cool. “You’re louder in person,” you said. “Thought you’d be more mysterious. Y’know, brooding. Aloof. Not... elbow-deep in someone’s leftover lunch.”

He laughed---really laughed this time, head tipping back. “Guess we both break expectations, huh?”

You paused, lips twitching despite yourself.

“…Yeah,” you murmured. “Guess we do.”

For a second, neither of you said anything. The hum of a nearby streetlamp buzzed overhead. A cat knocked over a can in the distance. Hawks was still watching you, eyes sharp behind that easy smile, wings settling in a little closer like he wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon.

You crossed your arms again, fighting back the urge to actually consider this interaction as anything meaningful.

“So,” you said slowly, “you stalking me now, or is this just a trashy coincidence?”

He smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Dang.

Ahem.

You rolled your eyes---just enough to let him see it, but not enough to give him full satisfaction.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you muttered, brushing past him, casual, as if this whole encounter hadn’t gotten under your skin.

You half-expected him to let you walk off with the last word. But no.

Of course not.

“Hey,” he called behind you.

You stopped, only slightly.

“What.”

There was a pause---just long enough for the silence to bite a little.

Then:

“You’ve got a leaf in your hair. And uh… soy sauce on your elbow.”

You turned fully, ready to argue---deny it, ignore it, anything---but the he just looked at you like he’d already memorized your microexpressions and was ready to catalog every single one‚ made you rethink.

Your eyes slid his way, neutral.

“Alright. Thanks.”

Flat-toned acknowledgment.

You didn’t reach for your hair. Didn’t check your elbow. Just stood there, steady.

His eyes narrowed slightly---curious, amused---but you caught it. That tiny twitch in his mouth, like he hadn’t expected that response.

“I get people pointing things out all the time,” you added, flicking a hand lazily. “Stains, threads, food on my face---y’know, the classics. So now I just say thanks.”

You glanced at him, letting it land.

“And don’t fix it?”

“Nope.”

That got him. A low chuckle rumbled out of his chest, and he nodded slowly like he’d just found another reason to be entertained by you.

“Well, (Hero Name), this was fun.”

And then---with the gall of someone who knew exactly what they were doing---he gave you a two-finger salute‚ turned on his heel with the kind of careless grace that only came from annoying amounts of self-confidence. Wings stretching, streetlight catching on the edges, and he was gone---vanishing around the corner like you’d imagined him.

Disappeared like this had been just another Tuesday night errand.

Like he hadn’t just tossed your night into a blender and strutted off with the lid.

You stood there a moment longer.

Still not brushing the leaf out of your hair.

What the hell just happened?

At first, you hadn’t even planned on it being a rivalry.

You’d just wanted to one-up him.

Maybe the next time you ran into Hawks, you’d be the cool one. Unflinching. Dismissive. You’d say something smart---subtle but scathing---and he’d finally be the one left blinking, stuck with a leaf in his hair.

But then he started showing up.

Everywhere.

You brushed it off the first time. The second, you gave it a little side-eye. But by the fourth unexpected run-in---at a charity event, a late patrol, a live-streamed PSA---it was getting suspicious.

And before you knew it, Hawks had become something of an occupational hazard.

There he was: in the corner of your interviews, hovering at joint patrols, clipped into your comms like it was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t invite him---PR did, apparently. “Shared air time” and “opposing charm points” and other buzzwords that meant ratings.

You didn’t mind the spotlight. You’d just rather not share it with someone who had the audacity to leave you standing with a leaf in your hair and soy sauce on your elbow.

So when he swooped into formation beside you mid-air and mid-mission---smug, composed, like he belonged---you didn’t flinch.

You turned just enough to meet his gaze, flashing him the same easygoing grin you wore on livestreams and magazine covers.

“Well,” you said, voice smooth, “look who’s following my lead.”

He gave you that two-beat laugh, head tilting like he was delighted you were playing back.

“Figured you’d want backup,” he said, as if you hadn’t handled six solo ops this month without blinking.

“Oh, how thoughtful.” You glanced down toward the van below, then back at him. “You bring backup for everyone, or am I just lucky?”

“You,” Hawks said, effortlessly, “are many things. But no one’s ever called you lucky.”

“Not to my face,” you shot back.

His grin widened. A challenge. You let the wind ruffle through your hair as you banked slightly ahead of him---just a bit---like you were carving out the lead.

“Keep up, Feathers. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

He chuckled behind you. “And here I thought I was the cocky one.”

You smirked, not bothering to look back.

But unfortunately (not)‚ that wasn't the end of it.

Back to present:

You're on your couch. TV now playing a slowed-down clip of you and Hawks laughing mid-mission with sparkles added in post.

You sink deeper into the cushions, biting the inside of your cheek. You knew the media would twist things, but this? This was peak nonsense. (But kinda funny too)

You and Hawks weren’t even rivals at first. You were just trying to mind your own business while he kept showing up at your patrol zones like some cryptid in aviators. Then the missions started. Then the banter. Then the banter during missions. Then the one time you both tried to stop a jewel thief and ended up accidentally crashing a wedding.

You didn’t ask for a public rivalry. You were just trying to do your job.

But now? Now it’s you vs. him in the public eye. Fans drawing you like lovers. Kids calling you the “Birdbrain Duo.” HeroWatch running full-length segments debating your aerial dynamics and emotional chemistry.

You grab the remote, mute the TV, and stare at your own frozen image on screen---smirking at Hawks in the middle of a burning hallway, like you're having the time of your life.

And, okay... maybe you kind of were.

But that’s not the point.

“…This is getting out of hand,” you mutter into the silence.

And somewhere---inevitably---your phone buzzes.

It’s from Hawks.

[Hawks:] U watching HeroWatch? They gave you my jawline. Kinda rude tbh.

You stare at his message.

Your lips tug upward, slow.

You move to type with one hand, casual.

[You:] Must’ve been the lighting. Or maybe they just think I wear it better.

The typing bubble pops up almost immediately. Predictable.

[Hawks:] Oof. A hit to the jawline and the ego? Cold.

You let the silence hang for a beat too long before replying. Let him stew. Then:

[You:] I thought you liked cold. Isn’t that why you keep flying next to me lately?

Pause. Beat.

[Hawks:] …Touché.

[You:] Don’t get soft on me now, angel.

You swear you can feel him stopping in the air wherever he is.

[Hawks:] Angel??

You pop another bite of your cold takeout.

[You:] Too much? Thought we were both fanservice now.

Silence.

Still nothing.

You smirk wider, toss your phone on the table, and lean back into the couch. You don’t need the last word. You already won this round.

And besides---he’ll come flying back for more. They always do.

Especially the pretty ones with too many feathers and too much airtime.

Your phone hasn't buzzed again. Not yet.

You glance at it---just once---out of the corner of your eye like it might buzz the moment you look away. But it doesn’t. Just your own reflection in the black screen, faint and smirking a little too wide.

God, this is fun.

You stretch, slow and satisfied, kicking your legs up over the arm of the couch and letting your takeout box tip just slightly. The scent of lukewarm curry clings to the room, the volume from the muted TV flickering across your face in flashes of fan-edited chaos. The screen is still frozen on that frame---your face tilted toward Hawks mid-mission, expression amused, his own caught in that half-laugh, half-glare thing he does when he knows he’s been baited.

They captured it so well, you almost want to applaud.

Almost.

Instead, you scroll. The ship tags are exploding. Your name paired with his in increasingly unhinged combinations, fan cams stitched together like a love story. There's even a slowed-down audio clip of your last mission---your voice layered over his, syncopated like a duet.

You shake your head. It’s not that you don’t get it. You just never asked for it.

No, he started this.

Well---okay. That’s not fair. Technically, he was just being his usual breezy, too-charming self, and you… may have fed into it. Just a little. Just to see what he’d do.

And now?

Now he's texting you like this is a game you both agreed to. Like there are rules.

You roll your neck back against the couch cushion and stare at the ceiling.

It wasn’t personal before. Just a weird coincidence. A few overlapping patrols. A trash bin. Some chemistry, maybe. But now? Now he’s on your turf. Casually leaning into your airspace. Cracking jokes like the two of you are synced-up sidekicks.

You narrow your eyes at nothing in particular.

He’s in your missions, your mentions, your hashtags. Your spotlight. And what’s worse? You don’t hate it.

Though you kinda wanna mess with the script. Have him flustered mid-flight. Or have him making the headlines about your “undeniable chemistry.” have every viewer pausing the playback wondering how Hawks got played so smoothly by someone who never even raised their voice.

Yeah, you'll totally do that.

Your phone buzzes again.

[Hawks:] U free tomorrow? Got a joint mission briefing. Thought we could “sync our energies” or whatever PR likes to say.

You pick up the phone, type:

[You:] Only if you’re ready to get out-charmed.

Send.

You’re still staring at your phone.

The screen lights up again, and you catch it just in time---the typing bubble flickers to life, disappears, then reappears like it’s debating with itself. You squint, thumb already twitching toward the screen.

Then the message lands.

[Hawks:] btw, after the mission---u wanna grab food or something? Like, real food. No more trash dives. I'm evolving.

You stare.

Your brain---bless its tired, overworked circuits---lags for a second.

Huh?

You read it again. And again. And… yeah, it’s still there.

Dinner. He asked you to dinner.

HAWKS asked you to dinner.

You blink slowly, then narrow your eyes like the message might morph into something else if you glare hard enough.

This has to be a trap.

You never---never---thought he’d be the one to ask first. Not because you thought he wasn’t bold enough (he’s too bold, actually), but because he’s too proud. Too annoyingly smug. Always toeing the line of flirtation like it’s a performance, always acting like he’s got it handled. That man practically oozes control over every situation.

So why… this?

Why now?

Your brain launches into damage assessment mode.

Is this a PR stunt? Did his managers tell him to do this for engagement? Is this for some HeroWatch segment called “Rivals Try Pasta”?

You imagine sitting across from him under suspiciously perfect lighting, camera flashes going off, and some blogger captioning it ‘Rivals. Lovers? We Investigate.’

You grimace. What if there will be paparazzi?

Or maybe he’s just being nice. Or... professional. This could be a hero thing, right? Just two coworkers grabbing a bite. Totally neutral. Totally platonic. Totally not--

No, who are you kidding. You saw the way he typed that.

“I’m evolving”?

Is this supposed to be flirtatious? Ironic? Genuine?

You sit there in dead silence, phone glowing in your hand, jaw faintly slack.

You never imagined in a million years that he’d be the first to flinch.

And that’s what this feels like. A flinch. A crack in the game. A move not designed to win, but to be seen.

Your thumb hovers over your keyboard.

Alright, Birdbrain. What’s your angle?

Because if this really isn’t a trap…

Well. Then you might actually be in trouble.

You let your thumb hover for another beat before finally typing back:

[You:] suspiciously specific evolution

are your PR managers involved in this? Will there be cameras? a “Top Ten Heroes Try Soup” livestream?

You pause, then add:

[You:] …but if it’s actually just food

and not some weird press stunt,

I’ll bite.

A second later:

[You:] but if there are cameras I’m ordering the messiest dish on the menu. And i’m not wiping my mouth.

Then you hit send.

You stare at the message.

Your phone buzzes again.

[Hawks:] lmao

nah, no cameras

unless you’re bringing them

which honestly would be kinda flattering

Another buzz.

[Hawks:] swear it’s just food

no PR managers, no press, no schemes

just me

evolving

in your general direction

You blink at that last part, reading it twice.

Then he sends:

[Hawks:] bring your messiest dish game tho

I’ll match you bite for bite

consider it... team-building

And finally:

[Hawks:] mission first

dinner after

don’t be late. i might take it personally.

You stare at the string of messages, thumb hovering but unmoving.

No press. No PR. Just him. Just food.

Just Hawks, allegedly evolving in your general direction---whatever the hell that means. You’re not sure if you want to snort or roll your eyes… or smile.

You reread the last message:

don’t be late. i might take it personally.

Tch.

He’s got jokes now. Team-building? He’s really trying to make this sound like a professional bonding exercise when he knows it’s not. Or maybe that’s the trap. Maybe it is professional to him, and you’re the one overthinking it.

Or maybe---maybe he’s serious. No schemes. No handlers in the shadows. Just him showing up… and hoping you will too.

But… do you trust him?

You glance at your closet without meaning to. Then back at your phone. Then the closet again.

If he's telling the truth, great. If he's not? Well.

You’re not showing up underdressed.

You’ve played the background long enough. So if this turns out to be a PR stunt?

You’ll make sure the cameras get your good side.

[writingwisterias]

Double the Chances

--------------------

Leon Kennedy x AFAB!Reader x Chris Redfield

Warnings: Smut, 18+ Only, MDNI, Slight Yandere! Leon and Chris, Threesome, Breeding kink, Cream pie, multiple orgasms (F), Spit roasting, Cowgirl, Oral (M), Double penetration, Mentions of bodily changes during pregnancy, Dacryphilla, Praise kink, Blacking out, Overstimulation, Aftercare Summary: Chris and Leon have taken a liking to you, what happens when they come up with an agreement for you, one that's too tempting to ignore.

I fear I may have cooked....

The music of the club flooded out onto the streets as you opened the door, your figure illuminated by the flashing neon lights above.  The cold air nipping at your exposed skin made you pull your jacket tighter around your frame; your breath visible as you sighed heavily. People filtered past you their shoulders occasionally bumping yours as you hovered near the entrance for warmth. Your eyesight was blurred as the alcohol settled in your system. The phone light illuminated your face as you looked at the time, eyes avoiding the notifications that popped up - many missed calls and texts from your ex. All pathetic apologies for a mistake he had made; as if you could accidentally fall into someone. The low battery warning should have concerned you, it should have instilled fear and panic about how you were going to get home safely, but he ruined you, why should you care? You had nothing to return to, no home to call your own anymore. You barely drank, the alcohol feeling alien as it coursed throughout your body another effect he had created on you. How his actions had changed your regular behaviours. Tears dripped from your eyes as you looked at the cobblestone street, your frame now shaking from the cold. "Are you alright?" A deep voice sounded from beside you, the hand making contact with your shoulder jolted you from your trance. You nodded, looking towards the sound of the voice. "yeah-Yeah I'm good thanks" you mumbled, swiping away the fearful tears that had leaked out of your eyes before your eyes fell on the man. He was attractive you had to give him that, his smile was almost dangerously kind; like it wasn’t giving you his true intentions. Excitement coursed through you maybe this was finally your chance to forget about your ex. 

Normally Leon wouldn't have interacted with you, often his drunken state would have had him stumbling down some dark alleyway to puke his gut up – not a good look when trying to find someone to burry your cock into. However, today he limited himself as he has done every time he and Chris went out recently.  They both began to rely on each other to help get over their alcoholism, turning to talk to each other about the things they had seen instead of the bottle. In this instance, it was good they had limited themselves, for if their eyes were blurred with their drink they would have never spotted you. They watched you throughout the night, biting their tongue when you would saunter over to a man and dance with them, their eyes trailing over the mesmerizing sway of your hips. Their fingers would grip the glass that held their drinks tighter as they watched the men touch you. "She would be perfect for what we spoke about" Leon muttered to Chris pointing his index finger over to your form. Chris chuckled deeply before nodding, "She is"

Leon wasn't sure what he was doing when he followed you out, leaving Chris to pay for the tab. His mind wasn't straight when he asked if he could take you home, his thoughts running on praying you would fall into their small trap to propose their plan to you. "Do you need a ride? Me and my buddy can take you back?" He offered. You hesitated the only logical part of your brain left begging and pleading for you to refuse the offer, that you were better off stumbling down the street home instead of getting into their car. But, tonight wasn't the night for your logical thinking clearly - so you accepted.

Your heels clicked against the cobblestone as you followed the men's path; you had now learnt their names Chris and Leon. Their muscly builds helped you feel protected as you walked between them, their arms occasionally brushing against your own. Your body was stiff and alert, still not fully trusting the companions you had picked up. "Thank you for this really- I wasn't sure how I was going to get back" you whispered, your voice was quiet and shy barely audible. Leon and Chris shared a glance over the top of your head, smiles on their faces as they looked back down at you. "It's no worries, we will keep you safe...where do you need to go?" Chris asked. His voice was lower than Leon's laced with dominance compared to his friend. "I...um..don't know"

You weren't sure where to go, your home was filled with the smell of sex and the longer aroma of her perfume. Your shared apartment was claimed by them now, and the thought of how graphic the texts of their talks about fucking on every surface made you cringe, your apartment was no longer. You had nowhere to go. No one to turn to, having moved away from your family for him. "You don't know?" Leon teased, his heart thumping in a slight panic over you being too drunk to even consent to anything they were planning. You shook your head "My boyfriend cheated on me and we shared an apartment...I can't go back-"

"you can come back with us" Leon suggested. You stopped, looking at the two men in front of you. Your eyes scanned every detail, your brain searching for any signs or characteristics that would alarm you. Your frame shook as the breeze brushed past again, the chill swirling between your legs causing you to shiver. You nodded, observing their reactions. "If it's not too much of a problem" you spoke. Chris smiled, his arm held out for you to loop your own through as they walked towards their car. "It's not a problem at all." He spoke. His smile was kind but his eyes were darker, their actions almost seeming more dangerous than your drunken mind was catching on. Your eyes remained on the cobblestone watching your every step- you didn't need help embarrassing yourself in front of these attractive men. Yes, they were and you weren't ashamed of the throbbing of your pussy at the mere thought of them both. Your mind wondered what it would be like, would they be caring and attentive? Helping you to your release in a passionate manner unlike your ex (If he ever did that in the first place.)

The car ride was mostly silent as you stared out the window of the backseat, their whispered chatter and laughter filled in most of the silence. Perhaps you should have listened to their conversation more, you shouldn't have drunk so much, their red flags were practically waving in your face. Yet you didn't notice until they opened their apartment door and ushered you inside. Their jackets thumped against the sofa as they threw them on it. "Welcome," Leon grinned. Your eyes scanned the place, the walls were mainly blank, a few pictures littered here and there but nothing more. You spotted the kitchen through an archway, assuming the rest of the place lay beyond the door. You began to rub your arms, attempting to shake off the goosebumps that ran up your arm. "Thanks, guys, I don't know how I can thank you" You muttered a weak chuckle leaving your lips nervously. Your words caused the men to glance at each other almost instantly, their eyes narrowing as they silently communicated. "Are you both telepathic because you seem to be doing that a lot?" you joked, Chris and Leon laughed turning to you with warmer smiles.

Leon's outstretched hand gestured you to sit for them, your brows knit in confusion but you did as was requested anyway. The soft cushions sank slightly as you sat, their forms now towering over you. Your eyes lingered on Chris' arms where they were crossed over his chest, his biceps bulging deviously. "You see our jobs make our futures uncertain, we live together for a sense of home. In hopes, if someone is here it will be welcoming. We have spent hours talking about our dreams for family, for belonging to something else than the services we devote ourselves to." Leon began to speak, and he moved to sit next to you. You watched as his thigh rested next to his, the muscles clenching against the fabric of his jeans. You waited for them to continue with a small nod of your head. Their smiles brightened, Chris, shifting slightly in an attempt to hide his growing erection. "Would you like to live here, give us the stability of a home? Welcome us when we return, and give us love and affection when we need it" Leon asked.

They both twitched nervously as they watched you, Leon was unsure of what he would do if you refused their offer. You were perfect, your looks were mouthwatering - your form perfect for carrying the seed he wanted so desperately to implant deep inside of you. "So just live here? or is there more to it?" you asked, hands fidgeting against the fabric of your dress, their stares were intense alluring to more of a plan they haven't disclosed to you. Chris cleared his throat, his arms lowering at his side before he crouched before you. "Our age and occupations prevent us from a normal life, we both wish for a family...crave it. To watch someone nurture what we have created together."

You glanced at them again. Your brain went over the idea repeatedly until finally, you nodded. A small nod. But one they both grinned at brightly. Chris slowly rose to his full height, the tightness in his pants tenting in front of your face. "Thank you. We don't have to do anything right away...we understand if you are tired from everything you have been through today-"

You admired how much it seemed they cared, that in this arrangement it seemed they wished you to be equal. They were allowing you to take command, lead them and shape them to be the devoted partners you have dreamed of. You smiled at them, and the warmth in your lower stomach began pooling quickly at the sight of their hardened bulges. "It's okay, I need it"

As soon as the words left your lips they both worked to usher you into the bedroom. The touch is gentle and caring but their mind racing with deep primal thoughts of your swelling form. The only problem - whose seed would be the cause of your beauty. Who would go first?

You began to slide yourself out of your dress, the fabric pooling at your feet in a small circle. Your nipples pebbled at the temperature change, and goosebumps ran up your skin as they eyed you eagerly. Your ex had never looked at you with such admiration, you felt like a goddess they were about to vow themselves to. Leon acted first, his lips enclosing your own in a heated sloppy kiss, his hands landing on your waist pulling you in closer to his chiselled body. The fabric of his shirt scratched at your sensitive buds eliciting a small moan to slip from your lips. Leon smiled against the kiss, pressing himself closer to your chest attempting to hear the sound again. Whilst you were distracted with Leon you felt Chris come behind you. His weeping tip tapped against the back of your thigh - you felt his chest press against your back as he pulled you closer into him. His lips attached to your neck, softly biting as pulse point leaving his mark on you. You felt him tug backwards towards the bed, his form supporting you as he gently laid you down. You felt his cock slide against your clothed cunt as it slipped between the soft flesh of your thighs, the tip weeping and red desperate for your attention.

Your hands seemed so small next to it, you'd have to use two to evenly wank him off. Your fingers curiously danced closer, watching as the precum coated your fingertips as you spread it around his mushroomed tip. Chris' groan grumbled deep from his chest, the vibrations of it caused you to squirm slightly. Leon stood at the foot of the bed, admiring the sight before him. Your small frame didn't even cover the mass of Chris' muscles. You looked so petite against his friend. "What a sight to behold" Leon stated as his hand began to wrap around his erection, wet sounds filling the room as he began to play with himself at the sight. Your mouth watered at the sight of Leon's cock, be it a lot small than Chris' but his balls were hanging lower, the skin around them taught. "She's soaking" Chris muttered, he could feel the gusset of your underwear sticking to his length- the white fabric practically see-through now.

"Is that so? Do you want this as much as we do, darling?" Leon cooed as he began to crawl onto the bed. His form lying next to you, his cock resting against Chris' thigh. Leon's mouth latched onto one of your breasts, sucking at the peaked nipple. Chris groaned again as you squirmed against him, his arms wrapping around your stomach preventing you from moving too much. "Please Leon-" You whimpered, your eyes screwed shut in frustration at the small amounts of pleasure he was giving you. Your pussy clenched around nothing as it craved more. Chris’ fingers moved to tease at the waistband of your panties, his fingers slipping underneath before they slowly began to circle your clit. Now and then he would swipe a finger over the bundle of nerves sending your hips jolting along the length of his cock that was still stuck between your thighs. The precum now dribbling down the side like wax on a candle. “Oh darling, you are going to be perfect for us…I can already tell” Leon cooed as he released your breast, his fingers pinching and tweaking at the nub as he whispered in your ear. “I can’t wait for these to fill for me, for your body to blossom with one of our children. You’ll be the perfect goddess for us” 

His words danced around your brain, your thoughts melting as you became dizzy with pleasure. Your body shook as your orgasm shattered through you after one more flick of Chris’ finger. Whimpers left your lips as your body sagged against Chris’ form. “Oh love we aren’t done yet” Chris chuckled, his lips pressing a kiss against the crown of your head. Leon helped you get up off Chris, helping you rest on all fours with a pillow underneath your hips to support your weight. The fabric dragged along the soft skin of your legs, exposing your pussy to them. “Who’s going first?” Leon asked, his cock thumping against his stomach as he observed your submissive form. Chris shrugged, “Does it matter?” 

“Of course, it does, whoever finished first is more like to be the cause of her pregnancy” Leon grumbled. The atmosphere changed then. Dazed you glanced at the men, their muscles clenching as their primal need overtook them. Chris, without speaking quickly lined himself up first, his hands gripping your hips as he slowly sunk himself into you. He allowed you to get adjusted to his size before he began to thrust. Starting slow, drawing out his length to the tip and then bottoming out. You moaned at the feeling of the stretch he was giving you. “Fuck” Chris muttered as he watched his length get buried into you. Leon’s cock tapped against your cheek, the tip leaving some of his pre on your face. “Don’t be shy” he joked. Your tongue ran down his length, tracing every curve and vein of his cock. Your mouth sinks onto his length, and your drool begins to pool at your chin. Your hands gripped the sheets as Chris began to propel you forward slightly, forcing you to take in as much of Leon’s cock as you could. Your gag reflex kicked in, contracting around his cock causing Leon to throw his head back, his fingers gripping your head tightly.

Your eyes began to water at the lack of air, and your head began to spin in complete ecstasy. You could feel your second orgasm building you as they both thrust against you. Your whines were barely audible with how far Leon was shoving his cock down your throat. Chris’ thrusts faltered first, his orgasm coming in hot as his balls tightened. His cock was rigid inside you as the vein began pulsating inside your velvet walls as he finally fucked his load into you. His tip kissing the entrance of your cervix as he tried to get as deep as he could. “OH- Fuck” He groaned as he leant over your form. 

You whined as his thrusts stopped, the pleasure against your gummy walls stopping along with the build-up. “Chris….You left her unsatisfied” Leon tutted as he pulled his length from your mouth, he smirked at the line of drool that still connected the two of you. “I’m so sorry love” Chris muttered against your spine as he placed small kisses. “I needed to be the first to cum in you dear, I wanted to watch your womb swell with me first” He panted, his hand now splayed across your lower stomach. “It’s….it’s okay” You whispered, your hips began to back into him, desperate to build up your sweet release. “Oh honey it's not, see you're having to fuck yourself on him just to get what you want… it's not working is it?” Leon spoke again, his breath tickling your ear. Your eyebrows knit in frustration as you whimpered, collapsing on the bed before shaking your head. 

Leon smirked as he pulled away, settling himself against the headboard with his cock standing in the air ready for you. Chris reluctantly helped you settle on Leon, watching as you leaned back into him for support as you smiled at how full you felt. You could feel his balls press against your ass, the curve of his cock hitting just right where you needed him at this moment. Both men were completely different, giving you different pleasures that your Ex has never achieved. Any hesitation of your new situation left as you began to circle your hips, eyes shut as you worked desperately to get a release on Leon. Your thoughts emptied as you did so, it was a lot like therapy. You lay your hands against Leon's abs, using the stability to help push yourself along his length. His whisps of hair that were at the base of his cock tickled against your clit the friction adding to the built-up. Leon threw his head back against the headboard, grunts leaving his mouth as he felt you fuck yourself on him.

Your gasp caused his head to shoot up, Chris’ large hands had begun to grope and tease your breasts eliciting the prettiest moans. Leon focused on holding out, waiting for your release to shatter through you, he knew you were close with the tears that leaked out of your eyes, the way your hips began to slow down, your body shuddering as it struggled to carry you through to the break of your release. His hands gripped your hips, helping them move in the motion you needed, he could feel your walls contract around him, the evidence of Chris leaking out from between the two of you pooling in his hair and on his balls. The sounds were wet and messy as they filled the room, your body covered in a light sheen of sweat as if you were glowing above them. Your breath hitched before you collapsed against Chris, your orgasm snapped through you, your juices running down Leon's cock creating a cocktail of sex with Chris’. Leon followed quickly afterwards finally letting go, you felt his load coat your walls, the warmth of him filling you. 

The three of you stayed like this, the excitement still flowing around the room as you all took in your deeds. You could already feel Chris’ cock twitch against your back again. “I could get used to this” You breathed out. Why should you care about your ex now? Why should he occupy your time when you had these two, both caring and gently ready to submit their love and devotion to you like you were their goddess?  “Good” Chris growled. His fingers gathered up the cocktail of everyone spreading it along his length. Your eyes widened as you felt him prod at your entrance. “It won't fit-” You whimpered shaking your head against his shoulder. Leon slid down the bed, chuckling at the concern that was laced on your face. “It’s okay sweetheart, you were such a good girl for us” Leon cooed, his cock already hard inside you. You felt Chris push you down against Leon, You buried your head in his neck bracing yourself for the stretch of them both. 

Chris entered slowly, pausing to help you adjust to the stretch of them both. Your hands scratched agaisnt Leon's body, your nails leaving red tracks as you cried out. “It’s too much” You whimpered, tears now streaming down your flushed cheeks. “Doing so good love” Chris groaned as he finally bottomed out. Leon’s fingers brushed through your hair, leaving kisses on your head as he soothed you. “Such a good girl like this - letting us breed you” He whispered. You nodded meekly against him. Leon smiled at your eagerness, enjoying the way you were completely submitting yourself to them both. “You’ll never have to worry about anything anymore, you’ll just be here to welcome us home like a good slut, spreading your legs to give us this perfect pussy” He muttered, grinning agaisnt your forehead as you whimpered and nodded. Chris began to move, his thrusts slow as you cried out at the stretch, the burn soon turning into pleasure. You had never felt so full, the stretch and the burn were insane, almost painful. You cried again as Leon began to move, the two of them working on matching their thrusts to prevent less pain for you. Your nails dug crescents into Leon’s skin, the scent of him filling your nose as you buried yourself against his pulse point. “Doing so– great sweetheart” Chris grunted. Their praise went straight to your clit, the puffy nerve desperate for attention as it pulsated against Leon’s happy trail. “More –” You whimpered. Leon’s brows raised in shock as he heard the words, his brain trying to wonder what you could have meant. How could you want more when they were both fucking your sweet hole? Chris figured it out first, his fingers circling the bud as they finally reached the attention-deprived part of your body. You were full-on sobbing now as the pleasure continued to build up, Your body becoming pliable against Leon - black spots filling your vision before you finally gave into the pleasure and collapsed on Leon’s chest, allowing them both to rut into you. 

The temperature change caused you to wake as you were lowered into the hot bath. The swirling scent of cheap bath soap filled your nose as you relaxed against the body behind you. “There we go” Chris cooed as he placed kisses against the side of your head. You could vaguely feel Leon’s hands wipe a cloth against your body with care, avoiding your sore and sensitive pussy. “You did so good for us” Leon praised, a soft caring smile plastered on his face as he looked at you. “I knew you would be a good one” 

You smiled at him, gazing at him with hooded eyes. You relished in the post-sex feeling, smiling at the aftercare they were both giving you. 

[aventurineswife]

oh! Oh! What about a creator for sahsrau and sagau who has these really cool glitchy-like holographic effects (kinda like silver wolf) meaning that creator essentially codes themselves into the game to interact with sagau and sahsrau!!

YES. YESSS. That idea is peak divine techno-deity energy. Like you’re not just some distant god—they see you render yourself into their world, all flickering light and digital seams, bending the boundaries of the game from the inside.

You don’t descend like a traditional god. You phase in—a crackle of corrupted space, code threads trailing behind you, your form warping and stabilizing like a hologram constantly trying to keep up with your divine presence.

Think Silver Wolf’s aesthetic meets cosmic programmer: neon glitch trails when you move, static-y distortion when you speak, and UI-like sigils that hover around you—your eyes scan like debug overlays, like you’re seeing behind the curtain of the world. You’re not from their side of the screen.

You're not playing the game anymore. You are the system now.

SAGAU Characters Reaction:

These are the ones who see you as the divine architect of Teyvat—and now you’re walking around like a living console command.

Nahida is fascinated. She wants to learn from you, watching the code flutter off your fingertips like ancient scripture. “You… wrote this world, didn’t you?”

Albedo tries to understand your existence through science and alchemy, but eventually just surrenders and says, “You are beyond categorization.”

Ei? She's shook. You represent both eternity and impermanence—because you alter reality like it's clay. She becomes obsessed with understanding your form. Are you divine… or unstable?

Venti sings about your glitches like they're divine stutters—“Oh holy one, whose voice is broken only to be heard clearer.” He thinks it's beautifully haunting.

Diluc? Externally calm. Internally: That’s the god? The one glitching in and out of space?? Yeah, he’s processing. Slowly.

Childe is 100% down bad. You made the world and look like a living cheat code? He’s signing up for the cult.

Your glitchiness makes them think: they’re not just visiting—they're rewriting reality as they go.

SAHSRAU Characters Reaction:

This bunch? They’re more tech-savvy. They know what code is. But the moment you code yourself into existence? Their minds blow.

Silver Wolf basically IMPRINTS on you. “Waitwaitwait. You’re the dev and the system and the user?” She's practically vibrating. “You are the game. That's so hot— I mean, fascinating.”

Kafka watches your glitched entrance, smirking: “So you chose to break the rules to be with us? How romantic.”

Dan Heng tries to stay stoic, but his databank starts erroring. You literally exist outside known logic.

Blade thinks you're a hallucination until you patch his health bar in real time. He doesn’t say thanks, but the silence means something.

March 7th is amazed and immediately wants to take holographic selfies with you. “Does your code sparkle on purpose??”

You glitch in, rewrite the world, then ask if anyone wants to hang out. And they’re like: “HOW is this our god?? HOW are they this casually omnipotent?!?”

Your Powers Might Include:

Hovering UI menus no one else can see.

Code strings trailing off you like falling flower petals.

The ability to patch or delete enemies in real time.

Pulling someone’s status screen into the air with a flick of your hand.

Saying "/noclip on" and phasing through walls.

You’re less “chosen one” and more debug mode incarnate.

[babyboydaniel]

Helmet Swap (M)

Lando Norris x Fem!Reader

Summary: Lando is excited to show you his new helmet for the upcoming season.

Smut, Fluff | Warnings: 18+, PinV, Mutual Masturbation, Thigh-Riding, Humping | Word Count: 2.6K

As the new F1 season rapidly approached, Lando finally got in one of his new helmet designs, covered in his signature neon yellow and blue. He could not wait to show it off to you. The moment it had arrived in front of your door, he was pulling it from the box, bringing it over to where you were sitting on the couch to show you all the small details. Unabashedly proud of his design for the upcoming season.

After showing it off, Lando placed the helmet on display in your bedroom. It sat atop your dresser, a garish object that disrupted the neutral serenity. But, you did not have the heart to tell him to place it elsewhere. You loved him being so genuinely excited about something. 

The helmet sat there for over a week, waiting for the first race in Bahrain. 

One night, after dinner with some friends, Lando and you stumbled into the bedroom, pulling at each other’s clothes and trying to get naked as fast as possible. Lando had been teasing you all night. He could not keep his hands off of you. Lando had leaned over to whisper the dirtiest things in your ear. Suggesting that he should drag you to the bathroom and fuck you against the sink, or he could simply bend you over the table in the middle of the restaurant. By the time you left and bid your friends goodbye, your panties were completely soaked. The drive home was just as torturous.

With tangled limbs, the both of you fell onto the bed. Lando below you, his legs hanging over the edge of the bed. Your legs straddled his thick thighs as you fell into his lap, completely naked. Somehow, Lando still had his pants and shirt on, which had been unbuttoned entirely. As you settled on top of him, he wound one arm around your waist. The other fisted in your hair as he stared deep into your eyes. His unwavering love for you was spoken with silent words. You almost had to look away since it was so overwhelming, but then Lando pressed a chaste kiss to your lips. You beamed. 

It was moments later that Lando was parting your lips with this tongue. Kissing you with such force and intensity that it was making it hard to breathe. The room was silent apart from the sound of your slick mouths moving together in a familiar dance. His grip tightened on you as if to stop you from falling apart, which had the opposite effect, heightening everything. Every flick of his tongue, a scrap of his teeth against your lip, and the tug of your hair, as he controlled the kiss, was a lot. 

Lightheaded and breathless, you were mindlessly grinding your wet core against Lando’s clothed, stiff member. 

Lando groaned as you repeatedly pressed down on him. His hips bucking up to meet yours halfway. If he allowed you to, you could get off just like that. That was the power Lando had over your pleasure. 

Lando pulled back from your warm, wet mouth. You whined as he moved a couple of inches from your face. You chased after his lips, wanting more and frustrated he wasn’t giving it to you. With a firm squeeze to your hip, Lando stopped your advances. You pouted. 

“Behave,” he commanded, his once loving blues eyes now firm with authority. 

“Finnneeee,” you grumbled.

“Now, why don’t you be a good girl and ride my thigh, baby?” Lando suggested.

“Fuck, Lan. Okay,” you quickly responded, hovering over his right thigh. Your pussy clenched just thinking about it. 

Lando’s hands steady you as you sit down on his muscular thigh. The brush of the fabric against your desperate cunt was euphoric. Without the need for encouragement, you immediately began humping his thigh, moaning and swearing as the pleasure was insurmountable. The drag of fabric over your clit was both not enough and too much at the same time. Your arms locked behind Lando’s neck, fingers entangled in his curls, anchoring yourself to the pleasure.

With cocky indifference, Lando rested his hands back on the bed. A small smirk played on his pink lips as he watched you frantically use him to chase an orgasm.

“Look at you, baby. So fucking desparate. Are you going to come all over my thigh?” he taunted.

You nodded. Increasing your speed, wanting more. Needing more.

“Shit, you are so fucking wet. Ruining my pants.”

“Just a desperate little slut, humping my leg to get some attention. You are so cute,” Lando teased. 

With each passing disgusting comment, you were getting closer and closer until you were about to topple over the edge. 

‘Lan, I am going to come,” you moaned. 

In an instant, Lando reached up to grab your hips, stopping your movements and halting your impending orgasm. You groaned, frustrated, since you were so close. 

“Not yet,” Lando stated, “I have an idea of how I want you to come. If you are okay with it.”

Lando pulled you back so he could look into your eyes. His eyes looked grey in the light.

“I want you to ride my helmet,” Lando suggested like it was a typical everyday request.

You whimpered, clenching your thighs at the thought.

“Yeah, fuck,” your eyes glancing over to the dresser. 

With you in agreement, Lando moved you off his lap, gently placing you on the bed. He strode over to where the once-forgotten helmet still resided on the dresser. He made his way back over and set it in the middle of the bed. The glistening wet spot on his thigh was obvious in the dim light, turning you on more. 

Once in its place, Lando made his way over to one of the chairs that faced the bed. He plopped down onto the cushion, legs spread wide and hands on his lap. 

“Go ahead,” Lando prompted.

With Lando’s permission, you shifted so your legs framed the helmet. Lingering over the object before resting your dripping core against the cool fiberglass of Lando’s helmet. The temperature difference made you moan. With a tentative flick of your hips, you rubbed against it. The noises continued to fall from your lips. Slowing humping the helmet, the smoothness mixed with your juices caused an orgasmic sensation. Unlike anything you have ever felt before. Everything was slick, and the wet noises echoed in the room as you dragged cunt back and forth. It was all so filthy. It was not going to take you long to come like that.

You opened your eyes to see that Lando had his cock in his hand, removing it from the confines of his pants, and was fucking himself with a loose fist. He was watching you.

Heat radiated from your chest as his gaze flitted over your skin, only encouraging you further. 

With his attention solely on you, you gently wrapped your hands around your throat. You pressed down only slightly, enough to get a reaction out of Lando. Pleased with the stutter of his hip and his lip finding its way in between his teeth, you lifted off from your neck to slowly glide your fingers down your breast, barely grazing your nipples. But the feeling was oh so delicious, and you needed more. You were operating only on the desire as you brought one hand up to your mouth, sucking two fingers between your lips, effectively coating them in your spit before returning to your nipples. The lack of friction had you throwing your head back in ecstasy. The movements of your hips increase. 

That was all it took to get you back to tiptoeing close to the edge. You were going to come, and you were unsure if you could stop yourself this time if Lando denied you. 

“Can I please come?” you begged Lando.

“Aw, baby, look at you. So pretty humping my helmet. So fucking desperate that you would get off on anything. You want to come?” he taunted. 

“Yes, please,” you pleaded.

“Then come.”

With Lando’s approval, you fell apart. A scream ripped from your throat, and you wildly bucked against the helmet, and your fingers twisted your nipples with such force you were sure they were going to be sore the next day. You came with such force you squirted all over Lando’s helmet. Coating the smooth surface with your release.

Lando looked pleased with you. 

Slipping off the helmet, your body sagged against the pillow resting at the headboard. The post-orgasm drowsiness beginning to seep into your bones. Your eyes became heavier as you just wanted to give in to the relaxation, but the movement of Lando approaching the bed alerted you. 

He stood next to the bed. His hard, leaking cock was a beautiful rosy pink, tempting you to place your mouth around it. 

Lando reached out to cup your jaw, his thumb tenderly running along your cheekbone. 

“Do you think you can come one more time? On my cock?” He asked.

Your sensitive pussy throbbed at the thought. “Yes,” you moaned. 

Lando quickly stripped off the rest of his clothes and returned the helmet to its place of honor. Once he was back in front of you, you reached out to take his cock in your hand. Loosely gliding your hand over the soft skin, squeezing out the precum as you massaged the very tip. On instinct, you licked the dribbling wetness that leaked out. Lando moaned. 

“Shit, baby, as much as I would love to fuck your mouth, I am not going to last,” Lando admitted. 

You giggled, “Next time then.”

Lando nodded, “Whenever you want, baby.”

Then Lando was on top of you. The weight of his body was suffocating you in the most pleasurable way. Lando’s mouth immediately finds your neck, lightly kissing the skin there. As if he was scared to leave a mark, but you just knew it was his way to drive you crazy. To have your baring your neck to him and begging him to mark you up. Knowing his tactic did nothing to change the outcome. 

“Lan, more, please,” you begged. 

“More what?” he questioned, playing dumb. 

“Just more. I need you. I-I need you to, to give me more. Please. I need you to mark me up. Please, Lan,” you gasped as Lando sunk his teeth into the base of your neck. You moaned at the inescapable pleasure that spread over every nerve ending in your body. 

Lando repeated this over and over again, biting and sucking mark after mark into your skin. Leaving you a whimpering, sopping mess beneath him. 

“I need you inside me,” you pleaded, arching your body into his. 

Lando removed himself from your neck to look you in the eyes. The intensity of his stare had you choking on the air. He was breathtaking. 

“I love it when you beg, baby. Knowing that you need me and my cock,” Lando whispered filthily in your ear. His lips pressed delicate kisses across your cheek until he reached your lips, where he placed an innocent kiss. 

Lando pushed off from your heated skin so he was kneeling in between your legs. He lightly ran a finger over your soaked cunt. Brushing over your clit with each pass but never spending enough time there to bring you any real pleasure. 

You moved your hips hoping to direct Lando to where you needed him, but, he knew your game and did not give in. He simply continued with his feather-like touches, giving you just enough for you to feel desperate. Having you exactly how he liked you. 

“Please just fuck me already.”

Lando laughed. Grabbing his cock in his hand, he slicked himself with your wetness. Dragging himself torturously slow between your lips. Then, without warning, Lando thrust into you, filling you up to the hilt. You cried as you stretched around him, loving how full he made you feel. Lando stilled as you adjusted around him, his fingertips dug into your thighs that were pressed to your chest. 

“Fuck, baby. Your pussy feels so good,” Lando moaned. 

Your pussy involuntarily clenched around him. Then Lando was sliding out of your wet heat before fucking back into you. His hips met yours over and over again. The obscene sound of your skin slapping together, mixed with the squelch of your juices around Lando’s cock was intoxicating. Your hands gripped the sheets while you writhed beneath Lando, your head thrown back in utter pleasure. 

Lando’s hands groped any part of your body he could reach. Your eyes fall shut as if unable to handle his touch. Then you felt Lando’s hand gripping your jaw. 

“Look at me, baby,” Lando coaxed. 

You opened them to find his electric blue eyes staring back at you. His curls were plastered to his forehead, his cheeks flushed, and his red lips were swollen. He looked absolutely erotic. 

His muscles flexed as he continued thrusting into you, sweat trickling down the planes of his chest. Your mouth watered. 

“Lan,” you whined.

Lando smirked, pleased that he had such an effect on you. 

“You look so pretty with my cock in you,” he panted, “you take my cock so well, baby.”

You could not hold back the moans from bursting from your lips if you had tried. The warmth of his praise cloaked your body. 

Lando’s pace was unrelenting as he repeatedly pounded into you, brushing that special spot inside, bringing you closer and closer to your orgasm with each pass.

Your breathing picked up, and you were meeting Lando’s hips with every thrust. 

“You want to come?” Lando asked. 

“Please,” you moaned. 

Lando somehow picked up the pace. One of his hands reached in between your bodies to rub your clit. It was what you needed. You were teetering on the edge. 

“I’m going to come,” you whined. 

“Let go, baby,” Lando said. 

With a curse, you were coming on his cock. Tremors of ecstasy cascaded the length of your body. Your chest curved towards Lando, pulling at the sheets that were still in your hands. Lando did not stop as you tightened around him. Fucking you through the pleasure. Extending your orgasm, it almost becoming too much. 

Then Lando came with a moan, stilling as you felt his dick twitch inside you. His eyes screwed shut, and his sinful mouth hung open as ropes of white cum coated your insides. Mixing with your own release. 

Once satisfied that he had nothing more to give you, Lando pulled out and watched as his cum dripped from your spent cunt. His tongue flicked out to wet his mouth. His gaze fixed on the indecent sight between your legs. 

As if he could not stop himself, Lando reached down and scooped up his cum with his fingers and rubbed it over your swollen core. Gently gliding against your clit. You whined, oversensitive after your last orgasm, and moved away from Lando’s hand. Lando snickered. 

“Look at my messy, baby. You look so good covered in my cum,” Lando mocked. 

You lazily smiled up at him as you slumped against the pillows. 

Lando leaned down to capture your lips.

After the languid make-out session, the necessary cleanup and visits to the bathroom. The two of you found yourselves wrapped around each other as you drifted to sleep. 

A couple of weeks passed, and you were in Bahrain for the first race. As you saw Lando get into the car for free practice, you could not help but blush, seeing the helmet on his head. It is a known fact that Lando had a habit of not washing his helmets after they had been used. 

[msbigredmachine]

Off The Record (Roman Reigns)

When passion gets recorded, it becomes the hottest track of the year.

Pairing: Roman Reigns/Black female rapper!OC

Warnings: Fluff, smut

Word Count: 3k

Song muses:

The neon lights bathed the walls of the recording studio, their pulsing hues reflecting off the glass panel that separated the booth from the control room. Lyrica Walker, better known to the world as the award winning rapper and singer Sweet Lyrica, was deep in thought. Her gaze flicked between the blank page and the microphone in the recording booth. A heavy bass line rumbled through the speakers, but the rhythm wasn’t igniting her the way it usually did.

Something was missing. Scratch that—someone was missing.

She tapped her pen against the spiral binding of her notebook, her full lips pursed in concentration. But no matter how hard she tried to focus, her mind kept drifting back to him.

Her man. Her love.

It was coming up to two years since she started dating Roman Reigns, and every day felt like she was living in a constant state of excitement and need. He spoiled her with everything—a constant flow of dinners at fancy restaurants, spontaneous trips to places she hadn’t even thought about, and a stream of expensive gifts and trinkets that made her feel like a queen. But it wasn’t just the gifts. No. It was the way he looked at her, touched her, loved her, like she was the only woman in the world.

“You’re zoning out again,” Dez, her producer, said from behind the console. His fingers hovered over the controls, his expression hovering somewhere between amused and exasperated.

Lyrica snapped out of her reverie, shaking her head as if that would dispel the image of Roman’s eyes, his lips, his hands, his dick…

“I’m tryna lock in,” she lied, her voice sultry even when she wasn’t trying. “It just don’t feel right yet. It’s too…soft. I need that shit to hit harder, like Roman does in bed.”

Dez cast her a sidelong glance, clearly uncomfortable. “You just had to say that, huh,” he griped.

Lyrica shot him a playful look. “Oh, come on. You gotta give me credit. With my line of thought, this track’s gonna be fire.”

Bree, her assistant, was sprawled out on the couch, scrolling through her phone with a grin plastered across her face. “I don’t know, Dez. I think this one’s gonna be a megahit. You can’t ignore the realness of it. It’s raw.”

Lyrica leaned back in her chair, tapping the pen against her lips. “I’m thinking of calling it ‘Can You Tell’.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Like, Can you tell when we alone in a room, we got the vibe and we got the tune?”

Dez nodded, impressed. “That’s a start.”

“And it’s facts, too,” Bree added with a smirk. “I mean, the neighbors definitely know when y’all are in the same room, that’s for sure.”

Lyrica couldn’t help but grin at the numerous reminders. Like the night before Roman had left for the UK. They fucked each other up and down her condo with such intensity that she woke the following morning to a complaint filed by her neighbors. If only she cared. It had been two weeks since then, and she was feeling every second of his absence. She had memories to hang on to, all of which made her toes curl and her lips curl into a small, secretive smile. But it wasn’t enough. She craved the real thing.

“Wait! How’s this? Can you tell from the way I don’t walk straight, that he eats my pussy out on every date?” she freestyled, her voice dripping with sass as she jotted down the lyrics.

“Oooh yasss girl, get that shit,” Bree cheered, snapping her fingers.

Dez’s reaction was the complete opposite, his hand over his eyes. “Lyrica, please! I do not need to hear about any more of your…dates with Roman. You like a sister to me, man,” he cringed.

“Come on now, let Miss Mama do her thing,” Bree interjected. “This song is gonna go viral. Big man’s gonna love it.”

Lyrica smirked. “He definitely will. This the kinda dirty shit he inspires.”

Bree snorted, “Girl, everything you do is inspired by Roman. I don’t blame you, though. Have you seen him?!”

Lyrica shot her a look but didn’t argue.

“Exactly,” Bree laughed, “I’m just sayin’,” she added, holding up her phone to display a video of Roman from his match the night before in London. He strode around the ring, dripping sweat, his long hair falling over his shoulders like a god carved from marble. “If my man looked like that, I’d write a whole damn album about him.”

“Exactly. He makes me wild. And wild is what sells,” Lyrica replied, her pen tapping again on her notebook. Bree wasn't wrong. Roman wasn’t just her man; he was her muse, her balance. With him, she felt powerful and vulnerable all at once—a walking contradiction that made her and her music come alive.

“Girl, it’s not just wild; it’s real,” said Bree, “That’s why people love you two. Y’all are couple goals, for real.”

Lyrica’s smile softened, but her voice carried the weight of a confession. “He’s so…different. The kind of man I didn’t even know I needed. I don’t know where I’d be without him. Like, literally.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken truths. Dez and Bree exchanged a glance, their silence louder than anything they could say. They both knew the depths Lyrica had clawed her way out of—a nightmare disguised as a high-profile relationship with a rapper that had unraveled into chaos. What had started as love turned into suffocating control, bruises hidden beneath designer clothes, and a fear she’d once thought impossible to escape. Then, Roman was no more than an acquaintance. They’d met through mutual friends, and from the beginning, his kindness was disarming, selfless in a way she wasn’t used to, his quiet strength a balm to her chaos. She’d sensed his attraction, but he never once overstepped, respecting the fragile walls she’d built around herself.

It all changed on a storm-drenched night when Lyrica found herself standing on his doorstep, soaked to the bone, trembling, and broken. Her words had been disjointed, barely audible through her sobs, but the sight of her swollen face said more than enough. Roman didn’t ask questions. He didn’t hesitate.

“You’re staying here tonight,” he said, his tone steady and resolute as he guided her inside.

She shook her head weakly, her voice breaking. “I don’t wanna be a burden…”

“You’re not a burden,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. His hands settled gently on her shoulders, grounding her. “Lyrica, you’re worth protecting.” He dipped his head, his eyes locking onto hers. “I’ll protect you. That fucker will never hurt you again.”

Lyrica remembered the rain pouring outside with the same intensity as her tears as she broke apart in his arms. For the first time in years, she’d felt something she thought she’d lost forever: hope.

It was Roman who encouraged her to testify against her abuser, standing beside her through every painful step of the process. His unwavering support gave her the strength to reclaim her life, and when her ex was finally sentenced, she knew she owed—and loved—Roman, more than she could ever express. 

An idea came to her mind, and she quickly scribbled it down:

Can you tell by the way I glow, his love is my fire and I can’t let him go?

The door to the studio creaked open. Lyrica barely registered it at first, assuming it was another assistant or studio tech coming in to fetch something. She didn’t bother looking up...until she heard a voice she hadn’t realized she was holding her breath for.

“Y’all talkin’ bout me in here?”

Familiar. Deep. Hers.

Her heart lurched, and a shiver raced down her spine. Slowly, almost afraid to hope, she turned her head.

Roman stood in the doorway, a bouquet of deep red roses cradled in his hand, his presence commanding the room like a storm that had just rolled in. The custom-made Nike tech fleece hugged his broad shoulders, his hair was tied back in a sleek bun, and that signature smirk—equal parts cocky and endearing—curved his lips. But it was his eyes that undid her. They locked onto hers, brimming with amusement, heat, and something softer, deeper, that made her chest tighten.

“Hey, baby girl,” he drawled, his deep baritone smooth and magnetic, the sound wrapping around her like a blanket on a cold night.

Lyrica’s breath hitched. It felt like the room had shrunk to just the two of them, his presence filling every corner of her world. She wanted to say something clever, something casual, but her words faltered under the weight of her emotions. She hadn’t seen him in weeks, and now here he was, looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

Her pen slipped from her fingers. “Baby!” She was on her feet before she realized she was moving, rushing across the room and leaping into his arms. He caught her with ease, holding her carefully as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

“What are you doing here?” she breathed, burying her face in his neck. His scent—clean and masculine with a hint of his cologne—made her head spin with a myriad of emotions. “Oh my god, you smell so good,” she gushed.

Laughing, his lips pressed against her skin. “Your birthday’s in three days,” he murmured against her ear, “You really think I’d miss that?”

Her grip on him tightened. “I thought you had more shows.”

“I did.” He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his huge hands possessively gripping her equally bounteous ass. “But you’re more important.”

Bree squealed softly from the couch, breaking the romantic moment. Finally setting Lyrica down on her feet, Roman’s eyes flicked to Bree, then to Dez, and his expression shifted to that commanding dominance that never failed to turn Lyrica on.

“Out. Both o' you. I need a moment with my girl,” he said.

Dez and Bree exchanged wide-eyed looks. Bree gave a sly smile and was the first to head for the door, dragging Dez along with her. “Don’t mind us, we’ll just…uh, take a break,” she said, clearly amused, shooting Lyrica a cheeky grin as she grabbed her bag. 

As the door clicked shut behind them, Roman turned to his girlfriend, that sexy smile back on his face. His eyes softened, a perfect mix of affection and desire. “So,” he began, his deep voice tinged with amusement, “what songs have you been working on lately?”

“A few here and there,” Lyrica teased, recalling the brainstorming session from just moments ago. “They’re about you, of course.”

His grin widened, and his hands slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him. “Yeah? I like the sound of that already,” he murmured, his thumbs brushing gentle circles on her sides. “But I got some lyrics for you, too.”

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh, you got bars? Lemme hear ‘em, then.”

He leaned in just enough to let his lips graze her ear, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m the flame to your fire, the calm to your fight, The one who showed you love could be so right.”

Her heart thudded at his words, striking deeper than she expected. For a moment, she could only blink at him, her playful facade slipping into something softer, more vulnerable. “Sounds like a hit already, baby,” she whispered.

Roman chuckled, low and warm, as Lyrica cupped his bearded cheeks and guided his lips to hers. The kiss was gentle, sensual, and full of untapped love, leaving them both breathless and clinging to each other like they were each other’s anchor. The room around them quickly melted away, the only sounds the faint hum of the studio equipment and their breaths mingling.

“I’ve missed the fuck outta you,” Roman admitted, his voice low and hungry as his hand slipped south to squeeze her ass in his possessive grasp. “Every time I was in the ring, all I could think about was getting back to you.”

Lyrica's fingers curled into the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer. “You think I’ve had it any easier? I can’t even write 'cause all I want is you.”

“I want you, too, baby. Come get this dick,” he growled, making her pulse quicken. As a couple, nowhere was off limits to fuck, not even in a recording studio. That’s how needy they were for each other. She could feel the heat radiating off of him, even more so as he kissed her again, fierce and persistent. With a soft groan into her mouth, he carried her blindly over to the console, settling her on the edge as he pressed into her. The control he had, the way he handled her like she was the only thing that mattered in that moment, aroused her to no end.

Shoving his joggers down his legs, Lyrica cupped that big ol’ dick of his in her palm, massaging him through his briefs. A moan emanated from both their lips at her touch, her acrylic nails scraping his rapidly stiffening flesh. Her fingers hooked the waistband of his briefs, and she pushed them down too, all the way to his ankles. In turn, he lifted her hips enough to drag her boy shorts off, then practically tore off her panties. He brought the scrap of lace material to his nose, eyes fluttering shut as the scent of her desire filled his nostrils. He smiled down at its source, gleaming from between her toned legs. "I see you're wet for me, baby," he observed, his voice thick with desire.

“I’m always wet for you,” Lyrica purred, resting on her hands behind her, watching him stroke himself in preparation for her. “Fuck me, baby. Hard.”

“Yes ma’am.” Roman inclined her against the glass paneling, hooked her legs around his bulging biceps and slowly guided his dick into her slick warmth. "Mmm, fuck yeah," he hissed as he started off with deep, plunging strokes, desperate for her as she was for him. He said nothing, for now, simply focusing on giving his girl something they’ve both been missing for weeks. The sensations flooding through him proved time and again that FaceTime could never replace the raw viscerality of his length wrapped by her tight, potent pussy.

Pushing her top up, he squeezed on her titties, caressing the soft, pliable flesh as he upped the tempo. “Such a good girl, keeping this pussy wet for daddy,” he rasped, leaning in for a sloppy kiss as he stared deep into her eyes. Her heavy breasts bounced in his palms, the glass panel rattling behind her as he fucked her against it. “Like how I’m fucking this pussy, baby? You missed this dick, huh?”

"I missed it, daddy, mmm, you feel so good," Lyrica whimpered, and it was the sweetest sound the OTC had ever heard. He plucked her nipples, gritting his teeth as her pussy squeezed his shaft, intensifying the already incredible sensations. 

“So fucking tight…” he growled, pounding into her harder, driving in and out of her dripping pussy. His hands left her breasts to grip her ass cheeks, lifting her against him while he hammered white-hot pleasure into her body, making her cry out again and again. 

“Mmmph, mmm, yes, yes, daddy, fuck me!” One hand moved to claw at his bicep, her fingernails digging into his taut skin, her breaths expelling with every slam of his pelvis. “Good ass dick…” she whined, her eyes rolling back, her stomach clenching along with her pussy as ecstasy beckoned. “Shit, I’m gonna come…”

“Uh huh. Get your nut, baby. Come on,” Roman rasped, grabbing her thick thighs and spreading them far apart as he kept up his ruthless pace. A sound of pleasure rumbled from his chest at the sight of his groin area smeared with her juices, the squelching sounds of her wetness mingling erotically with their sex noises. His glazed eyes locked onto her face, alight with ecstasy, and he watched her arch off the console and her jaw drop, moaning with reckless abandon, her legs trembling as she came apart around him.

“Unnnnhhh…”

"Shit," Roman gasped, pinning her down, his hips snapping furiously. He was so close, his end building with a near-crippling intensity that made his dick throb. "Fuck, Lyrica..."

“You're close, ain’tcha, Ro?” she taunted, her hands closing around his pumping hips to pull him deeper. “Come inside me, baby. Come for me.”

His groans harmonized with hers as he shuddered, releasing everything he had into her, Lyrica holding him close as pleasure swept through his big body. His nut seemed to go on forever, but at last, he stilled, his face buried in her neck, his heart hammering in his chest.

Lyrica laughed breathlessly, tenderly rubbing the back of his head. “Damn, big daddy,” she teased.

Roman wrapped a gentle hand around her neck and grinned down at her. “Told you I missed you.”

“I know, baby. I missed you too,” she nodded, sighing softly as their mouths met again, their tongues twining slowly, deliciously. Then, a loud gasp escaped her as she suddenly realized something. 

“Oh shit!” she muttered, looking around the room, then at Roman, her eyes wide. “The mics were on!”

Roman looked over at the recording equipment, his eyes narrowing. “What?”

Lyrica quickly pushed a button, and the playback button lit up. What followed was the unmistakable sounds of their passionate exchange—her breathy moans, his gruff grunts, the rhythmic slapping of wet skin. The lewd yet intimate sounds filled the entire room, layered over the faint beat Dez had left running in the background.

“Oh my god!” she said, burying her face in his chest from embarrassment. “I can’t believe that got recorded!”

Roman burst out laughing, clearly entertained by the whole situation. “I think it’s perfect,” he said, kissing the top of her head. He could see the wheels turning as she looked off to the side before shrugging her shoulders, her confidence returning.

“Ya know what? Fuck it. I’ma keep it.”

Roman raised an eyebrow, fighting the smirk that tugged at his lips. “Really? You ain’t worried about how it’ll look?” he teased.

Lyrica grinned, her fingers trailing up his chest. “It’s raw. It’s real. I might just build the whole track around it.”

He chuckled, gently tapping her backside. “As long as the world knows who you singin’ about.”

“Oh, they’ll know. You’re unforgettable, baby.” Her voice was a sultry purr as she kissed him. “It’ll be the most fire part of the song. People will be talking about it for months.”

And they did. 

A month later, ‘Can You Tell’ dropped, and as soon as the track hit the airwaves, the world exploded with speculation. Fans flooded Lyrica’s social media trying to figure out if the breathless sounds in the song were truly hers and Roman’s. Neither of them confirmed or denied it, letting the mystery add to the song’s allure.

The song went viral, and while the critics loved it, it was the rumors surrounding the track that kept the public hooked. One thing was certain, though: Lyrica and Roman had created a track that no one would forget. It was wild, passionate, and raw—just the way they both liked it.

But for Lyrica, the real triumph wasn’t the song’s success. It was the love that had inspired it, the beautiful, amazing man who had helped her heal and reminded her that she deserved the world.

THE END

Thoughts?

Shout out to the Anon who sent the idea for this a long time ago.

Credit to the owners of the pics and the gifs

🏷️: @harmshake @cyberdejos2 @thesamoanqueen @vebner37 @thewarlordsworld

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[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

isekai and in over my head.

chapter one | congratulations, you've died again.

it starts with you waking up in what might be a coma, probably isn’t a otome game, and is definitely not your life. It ends with five dangerously attractive men forming an unofficial committee to keep you alive, loved, and under constant emotional surveillance.

ABOUT | 3.1k words. f!reader x 5 LI (non-romance so far). slice of life.

TAGS | isekai. for shits and giggles. flirting. banter. fluff. survivors guilt.

NOTE: i’ve been spiraling a bit—writing, life, family stuff. so i’m putting angst on pause for now. i just want to write something light, a little unhinged, maybe even fun. here’s a side of me you probably haven’t met. either way, let’s laugh a little.

INDEX | chapter one ✧ chapter two ✧

chapter one | congratulations, you've died again.

THE FIRST THING...I noticed was the light.

Not warm sunlight. Not even the dim, flickering sort that hums overhead in hospitals. This was harsher—clinical, fluorescent—like someone had screwed neon tubes directly into my skull. It sliced through my eyelids in angles too precise, too sharp, and far too awake for whatever this was.

I groaned.

My head didn’t hurt, not exactly. It just felt... full. Like someone had replaced my brain with a bag of cotton wool and static. My mouth was dry, my tongue unfamiliar, clumsy against my teeth. My hands twitched beneath me, brushing against something cold and unwelcoming—metal, maybe. Or concrete. Hard to say. My brain hadn’t quite caught up to the part where things had weight and texture.

For a long, uncertain moment, I just lay there. Staring.

The sky above me wasn’t blue.

It was a pale, silvery sheen, streaked with bright, swirling fractures—like someone had smashed a mirror and scattered the shards across the clouds. They hung there, glinting, suspended in air like pieces of broken glass refusing to fall.

Which, all things considered, wasn’t ideal.

Around me, the skyline stretched upward in angles that didn’t quite make sense—black spires, too smooth, too symmetrical, like a fever dream of the future. Buildings that shimmered with their own light. Towering structures that bent the laws of physics just enough to make my stomach turn.

And the ships.

They hovered midair, motionless yet humming. Too steady for helicopters, too sleek for jets. Like someone had redrawn the rules of flight while I wasn’t looking.

Okay.

I closed my eyes again.

Deep breath. In. Hold. Out.

This was fine. This was probably fine.

Because obviously, it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. No version of reality I knew included silver skies or floating ships or buildings shaped like knives. Which left me with one of three options:

One: Dream.

Two: Coma.

Three: Hallucination.

I went with coma. It sounded marginally less embarrassing than hallucinating a sci-fi skyline. People fell into comas all the time and woke up in places their brains had cobbled together from memory, TV shows, and the occasional Reddit spiral. Right? It happened.

Because the alternative—the one brushing against the frayed edges of my thoughts—was just too absurd.

I swallowed.

The absurd thing had a name.

Love and Deepspace.

No. Absolutely not.

I shook my head. Or tried to. It was like moving through syrup. My body wasn’t quite mine yet.

This wasn’t that. This was just... brain noise. A side effect of too many sleepless nights and maybe a mildly enthusiastic mobile game phase. That was all. People dreamed about video games all the time. That didn’t mean I’d somehow ended up inside one. That would be ridiculous.

So ridiculous, in fact, that my heart was starting to beat a little too fast just thinking about it.

I sat up slowly. The ground beneath me tilted, a slow, nauseating see-saw. Balance wobbled, but held.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed—sharp, synthetic bursts echoing against the skyline like a warning shot. I turned toward the sound.

Figures moved in careful formations, small as ants against the horizon. Uniformed, some of them. Black silhouettes flitting between metal towers, fast and focused, like they knew exactly what they were doing.

I squinted.

Pain bloomed behind my eyes, a quiet, steady throb—don’t look too hard.

Another breath. Shallower this time.

Dream. Coma. Hallucination.

Pick one.

The air tasted like metal.

That strange, sterile tang—part scorched wire, part hospital corridor. Somewhere nearby, something sizzled. A pulse of heat rolled through the street like an aftershock, brushing against my skin with the vague threat of combustion.

I pushed myself upright, limbs reluctant but intact. This time, my knees held. Small victories. I’d take them.

A voice rang out in the distance—male, sharp, cutting through the static of my thoughts.

“—Pipsqueak!”

I didn’t flinch.

It wasn’t for me. Obviously. Why would it be?

Another burst of static cracked above. A ripple of... something—energy? reality?—shimmered across the silver sky like heat on asphalt. My brain tried to explain it, failed, and quietly replaced the gaps with white noise. I moved forward. Or wandered, really—aiming vaguely for the direction that seemed least likely to kill me.

“Pipsqueak!”

There it was again. Closer this time.

A chill climbed my spine.

I slowed. My heart stuttered in its rhythm, and logic gave up entirely.

Just look. Not hard, not long—just enough to confirm this is all a mistake.

I turned.

And froze.

He was running toward me.

And by he, I mean him. The man. The myth. The military-grade mistake of my emotionally stunted dreams. The colonel. The fan edit. The character who had no business being that hot in a pixelated cutscene.

Caleb.

And—dear god—it was really him.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. I just stood there, limp and blinking and deeply malfunctioning, as he sprinted toward me across the broken street like the chaos was just backdrop and he’d been waiting for his cue.

His boots hit the ground like a metronome. His coat flared behind him like it had been programmed to. And that face—that face—wore the expression. The one he always had right before everything went to hell: intense, focused, softer than it had any right to be. Brow furrowed just enough to look concerned. Jaw set. Eyes sharp enough to slice through time itself.

And then—swear to god—I heard it.

That song.

The edit song. The one with the slow drum and the breathy vocals that every Caleb stan on the internet had synced to his most dramatic cutscenes. The one where the MC catches him mid-fall, wounded but weightless, the entire galaxy burning behind them.

Somewhere in the back of my brain, a full string section began to swell.

I actually shook my head. “Stop it,” I muttered, half out loud. “Get a grip.”

It didn’t help.

Because the way he was looking at me—as if the universe had cracked open and I was the only piece left that mattered—was exactly like the game.

He shouted something again. I didn’t catch the word. Just the sound of it: urgent. Certain.

I stumbled back a step.

Because this wasn’t some lookalike. This wasn’t some glitch of the coma-dream matrix. This wasn’t fan art or hallucination.

This was him.

Real. Undeniable. Breathtakingly—infuriatingly—three-dimensional.

Which meant… which meant…

I swallowed hard. My throat rebelled. My palms had gone slick.

He was almost close enough now that I could see the shift of his muscles beneath that damn coat. The way each step sent a ripple of motion through his body, grounded and graceful, like even gravity didn’t want to get in his way. His boots struck pavement with military certainty. His voice carried like a commandment.

He was real.

Too real.

This wasn’t a face cobbled together from bad lighting and wishful thinking. This wasn’t the result of scrolling too many fan pages at 2 a.m. He had weight. Presence. Light clung to his skin like it didn’t want to let go. His voice resonated. His gaze held.

And me?

I wanted to drool.

Right there. Mid-apocalypse. Mouth open. Brain buffering. One click away from falling flat on my face in front of an emotionally unavailable fictional war god.

I was about to be scooped up into the arms of a man who, for all intents and purposes, wasn’t supposed to exist—except with abs that could end world peace and a voice that sounded like safety and sin rolled into one muscular, tactical daydream.

He was nearly upon me when survival instincts kicked in—and promptly malfunctioned.

So I did the only thing that made sense.

I shut my eyes, slapped my face, and hoped I’d pass out.

I didn't.

The sting rang out louder than expected. My palm left a warm print across my cheek, and my dignity evaporated on contact.

When I opened my eyes again, he was there.

Right there.

Towering over me like a verdict.

“Pipsqueak.”

His voice was lower now, wrapped in something between relief and reprimand. Like someone who’d been holding his breath too long and only just remembered how to exhale.

I stared up at him, utterly silent.

Because what exactly do you say to a man who thinks he knows you better than anyone in the universe—when you’ve only ever known him through a screen?

“Are you hurt?” he asked, already reaching for me. “Did you hit your head?”

Yes. On the pavement of delusion.

“No,” I said quickly, even though my voice cracked like it had been in storage since 1998. “I mean—yes. Maybe. I don't know.”

His hands found me before I could back away.

One cupped the side of my face, angling it gently toward the light. The other hovered under my elbow, like I was something fragile—something that might fall apart if left unattended for too long.

Which wasn’t... inaccurate.

But his touch. God.

Warm. Grounded. Steady. So deliberate, like he’d done this before. Like this was muscle memory. Like he’d held this face in his hands a hundred times—knew it from the curve of the brow to the line of the jaw.

I couldn’t breathe.

And I couldn’t lie, either. Not well. Not under pressure. My face was a glitching disaster of emotions—shock, awe, guilt, and a flash of something primal I will not be taking questions on at this time.

He misread it, of course.

“Still in shock,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over my cheekbone.

I shivered. Not helpfully.

“You're freezing.”

No. I was combusting. Actively boiling inside my skin. My bones were sweating. If he touched me for one more second, I’d melt straight through the pavement.

“Pips, your vitals are all over the place,” he said, checking some kind of wrist scanner he’d unclipped with infuriating efficiency. “You must've been close when the second pulse from the rift hit.”

Second pulse? Rift hit? The hell was he talking about...

My brain could not compute. It was juggling too much: his nearness, his impossible voice, the nickname he kept using like it belonged to me.

“Stop calling me that,” I said.

Too sharp. Reflexive.

He blinked. His hands stilled, but didn’t fall away.

My breath caught.

And then, without thinking, I moved.

I pushed him.

It wasn’t dramatic. Not even forceful. Just a small, shaky shove to the chest—barely enough to make him step back. But he did. Instantly. Like the spell broke the second I touched it.

We stared at each other.

His face shifted. Only a little. A flicker of confusion, chased by something quieter. Something dangerously close to hurt.

“I'm sorry,” I blurted. “I just—don't touch me.”

It came out worse than it felt.

Inside, I was clawing at my own ribs, trying to make space to think. His closeness had short-circuited something critical.

He straightened slowly. Not offended. Just... recalibrating.

“Alright,” he said softly. “No touching.”

The way he said it—careful, like it hurt—made my stomach twist.

Like he'd done something wrong.

Like I had.

“I didn't mean—” I started, but the words tangled and fell apart in my mouth before they could reach air.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

He wasn’t supposed to exist. Not like this. Not with real muscles and real warmth and real concern folding into every breath. He was supposed to be code. Character art. A game.

And yet, somehow, he was looking at me like I’d just broken his heart with one uncertain step.

He stepped back. Half a pace. Just enough to give me room. Just enough to let the cold rush in.

“It's okay,” he said. “We can talk about it later...”

His voice was softer now. Like I was made of glass, and he’d already heard the first crack.

He turned his head, muttered something into a comm clipped to his collar. I caught fragments—medical, stabilized, containment zone—but none of it landed.

I stood there, adrift in my own body.

Because he thought I was her.

The real her. The MC.

And I... wasn’t.

Not the one who’d grown up with him, trained beside him, made him laugh, made him stay. Not the one who teased him into softening, or shattered him just enough to help him heal.

That was her story.

Not mine.

But he didn’t know that.

And I couldn’t tell him.

Because if I did, I might lose the look on his face.

This softness. This impossible tenderness—woven through ash and urgency and dust and dread.

So I said nothing.

Besides, I needed answers. How I got here. And—if it was even possible—how to get home.

Caleb turned his head again, murmuring into his comms, his voice clipped now—brisk, efficient, all that earlier warmth folded beneath military precision.

“Secure the perimeter. Prep evac. She's coming with me—yes, I'll bring her in for assessment. Zayne's on standby, right?”

I blinked.

Zayne?

The name hit like a spark to dry kindling.

My head whipped up. “Wait—did you just say—?”

But he was still talking, still barking words I couldn’t follow—containment, bio-signal, integrity, elevated charge—his mouth moving around the vocabulary of a world I wasn’t supposed to be in.

I took a step forward, breath lodged high in my throat.

Did he just say Zayne?

As in... ZAYNE?

As in Doctor Zayne?

As in sweet-tooth, sharp-witted, god-tier-with-a-scalpel Zayne? The one with the voice like melted chocolate and hands that made the fandom lose structural integrity?

As in Dawnbreaker Daddy?

I stared at Caleb, genuinely unraveling.

Because that name wasn’t background noise. That name was legend. That name wore glasses and saved lives with one hand while tearing through enemies with the other. That name had a two-part origin myth, a drop rate lower than mercy, and an entire corner of the internet dedicated to his jawline.

And now he was apparently… on standby?

Like this was just a normal Thursday?

“What—”

A sharp beep cut through the air.

Then another. Then a rising whine, mechanical and shrill—like a futuristic kettle winding itself up to panic.

I looked down.

A device. Strapped to my wrist. Sleek and unfamiliar, pulsing blue at the edges. Numbers scrolled across the surface—fast, tight, cryptic. A countdown? Coordinates? Diagnostics?

“What the hell is that?” I muttered, mostly to myself.

Caleb turned.

No—snapped.

He crossed the space between us in two strides, wrapping one hand around my wrist and lifting it for a better look. His eyes scanned the display, jaw tightening.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Metaflux spike. Too soon.”

I wasn’t sure whether to be worried, terrified, or offended that metaflux wasn't just a word in a game, but a real thing in my current reality.

Before I could settle on a reaction, he looked at me again—different now. Sharper. Command-mode fully engaged.

“You still have your handgun?”

I blinked. “My what?”

“Your sidearm. On your thigh.”

“My gun?”

He gestured—two fingers, quick and precise—toward my leg like it was obvious.

I followed his gaze.

And choked.

Strapped to my thigh—like a casual accessory—was a matte black firearm. Sleek. Polished. Very real. It hugged the curve of my leg like it had always been there. Like I belonged with it.

My stomach flipped.

I hadn’t even noticed it. I had a gun. I had a gun.

I. Had. A. Gun.

“Okay,” I breathed. “Okay. That's... a lot.”

Caleb’s face didn’t shift, but something eased slightly around his eyes. Like he registered the rising panic and adjusted for it in real-time.

“I know your head's still scrambled,” he said, calm and even. “But we don't have time. Wanderers are breaking through the breach.”

Wanderers.

As in the actual nightmare fuel from the game?

The voidborn horrors with spindly limbs and glowing mouths and movement patterns that made your skin crawl?

I swallowed.

Hard.

This wasn’t funny anymore.

(Okay, it had stopped being funny about three hallucinations ago, but this was now fully entering run-screaming-into-the-sunset territory.)

Caleb saw it—the shallow breath, the inching step backward, the way my fingers curled like I could vanish into my own palms.

And to his credit, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t push. He just stood there—still, grounded. Like he’d wait forever if I needed him to.

“You're safe with me,” he said quietly.

And I hated—hated—that it helped.

That those four words landed somewhere deep and shaking. That they loosened something I hadn’t realized I was holding. That they made me want to believe him, even though everything in me screamed don't.

It wasn’t the words.

It was the way he said them.

Not we'll keep you safe. Not you'll be fine. But you're safe with me.

It was personal.

It was protective.

It was too much.

I didn’t say anything. Just nodded.

Once.

Because if I opened my mouth, I might scream.

Caleb shifted beside me, speaking into his comm again—voice low, clipped, all business.

But I wasn’t listening anymore.

The air had changed.

Not the temperature. Not the pressure. Something else. Something… off. Sharper. Thinner. Like reality itself had sucked in a breath—and forgotten how to exhale.

Then the light bent.

Not dramatically. Not with thunder or fanfare. Just a shimmer—subtle, glassy—like a mirage on hot pavement.

Except it moved against the breeze.

Wrong.

Wrong in a way that prickled across my skin like static. Like instinct. Like the deepest part of my brain had already decided we are not supposed to see this.

Caleb snapped to attention. “Get behind me.”

And then I saw it.

The tear opened twenty meters out—ripping clean through the air like a mouth mid-scream. A sickly blue glow spilled from the breach, curling around something moving.

No—emerging.

Limbs.

Not arms. Not legs. Limbs. Jointed too many times. Bent in ways bones should never bend. Skin like wax stretched over sinew, too smooth, too long. It pulled itself from the rift as if being born—and hating every second of it.

A Wanderer.

An actual, canon-accurate, Wanderer.

And up close?

It wasn’t just nightmare fuel. It was too real.

Flickering sigils twisted across its body, pulsing with something foul and alive. Its face—or whatever it had instead—turned toward us, blind but searching. It clicked.

Once. Twice.

Like bone tapping bone.

Caleb stepped in front of me.

I didn’t move.

I couldn’t.

Because my body had gone ice cold from the inside out.

This wasn’t a cutscene.

There was no turn order. No dodge button. No pull to restart.

The creature roared.

Sound cracked through the sky like a warning shot from hell itself. The ground shook. Caleb raised his weapon.

And me?

I just stared, lips parting, voice flat with disbelief as my nervous system gave up entirely.

“Oh, fuck no.”

To be continued...

[selfless-solipsist]

°˖✧ The Deed? ✧˖° [Hater]

「 ✦ “I—YOU—STOP TRYING TO MAKE ME EXPLODE!”✦ 」

╰┈➤ Lord Hater x Female Reader ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

(Suggestive themes, but trust me- this is pure fluff)

The bedroom felt like it belonged in a teenage goth's fever dream, with posters of Hater's own face plastered over the walls like he was both the rockstar and the fan. The neon-green glow of the plasma lights hummed softly, illuminating his messy pile of capes in the corner and a suspicious amount of half-eaten taquitos on his nightstand. It was Lord Hater’s “lair of love,” as he had awkwardly dubbed it. You had simply called it "a hazard zone for bad decisions."

And tonight? Tonight was no exception.

Straddling Hater’s hips, your smug grin stretched as wide as your patience allowed while the supposed “Greatest in the Galaxy” lay beneath you on his waterbed, flailing like a distressed octopus. You were wearing the closest thing to scandalous you could find—tiny shorts and a cropped tank top that barely clung to the notion of modesty. It wasn’t hard to get the upper hand here; Hater wasn’t exactly a seasoned warrior when it came to this kind of battle.

“Are you comfortable?” you asked, your tone so deadpan it made him even more nervous. His glowing neon eyes darted to anywhere but your face—or your…uh, other regions.

“Y-YEAH! TOTALLY FINE! HA! SUPER COMFORTABLE! NEVER BEEN MORE COMFORTABLE IN MY LIFE!” He wasn’t fine. He was the visual embodiment of “panic,” with his gangly skeleton limbs stuck mid-flail and his pajama pants bunched awkwardly around his shins.

You tilted your head like a predator sizing up its prey. “Uh-huh. You look relaxed.”

“I AM RELAXED!” Hater yelled, his voice cracking like a preteen trying to assert dominance. His hands hovered nervously over your hips but didn’t dare land. “This is going great! We’re…we’re doing it! Romance! Intimacy! THE DEED! Oh my bones, I’m gonna die—”

“Hater.”

“—which is ironic, ‘cause I’m already dead! Like, literally! But not, like, dead dead, you know? I’m just a skeleton, which means—”

“Hater.”

“—DO I EVEN HAVE THE ORGANS FOR THIS? WHAT IF I EXPLODE?! WHAT IF I’M NOT GOOD AT IT? WHAT IF—”

“HATER!”

“WHAT?!” His voice hit a pitch that could shatter glass. His glowing green pupils shrank to pinpricks as he froze beneath you, hands flailing dramatically.

You arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I haven’t even done anything yet. Breathe. If you can.”

He sucked in a fake breath for dramatic effect, only to wheeze it out seconds later. “I KNEW YOU WERE GONNA SAY THAT. But, uh, can we talk about logistics first? Like, uh, how does this even work? I mean, I’ve read things! Not like, weird things—actually, yeah, weird things—but, uh…”

“Oh my stars,” you muttered, rubbing your temples. “Did you Google it?”

Hater’s silence was deafening.

“You Googled it.”

...

“NO! MAYBE! SHUT UP! It was for SCIENCE! And besides, what else was I supposed to do?! You’re all, like, ‘oooh, I’m mysterious and experienced,’ and I’m just here like a clueless bag of bones—”

You couldn’t help it; you burst out laughing. He immediately crossed his bony arms over his chest, pouting like a child caught sneaking cookies. “Stop laughing! This is serious business!” he whined, stomping one foot against the mattress for emphasis, which only made him look more ridiculous.

“Oh, it’s serious all right,” you said, wiping a tear from your eye. “You’re so cute when you’re flustered, you know that?”

“CUTE?!” he bellowed, practically vibrating with indignation. “I AM NOT CUTE! I AM EVIL! TERRIFYING! LORD HATER, THE GREATEST IN THE GALAXY—”

“—who’s blushing so hard right now that I think your face is going to catch fire.”

Hater sputtered, his jaw clacking shut like a trap. His green aura flickered in betrayal as he buried his face in his hands, muttering a string of incomprehensible complaints that might’ve included the words “never living this down” and “stupid sexy villainess.”

“Listen,” you said, planting your hands on either side of his ribcage and leaning in, your voice calm but tinged with amusement. “You don’t have to overthink this. It’s just me. Same me who wiped guac off your skull last Taco Tuesday. Same me who carried you bridal-style out of the Skullship cafeteria when you slipped on a burrito.”

“THAT WAS ONE TIME!” Hater wailed, his voice muffled behind his hands. “It was a WET FLOOR! You try maintaining balance when your feet are THIS BIG!”

“Uh-huh.” You tapped a finger against his sternum, which elicited a startled squeak. “Point is, you’re not impressing anyone by being the ‘Greatest in the Galaxy’ right now. I like you just the way you are—awkward, goofy, and apparently obsessed with Googling—what was it, ‘can skeletons…’?”

“STOP!” he begged, his hands shooting up in surrender as though you were holding him at comedic gunpoint. “DON’T FINISH THAT SENTENCE!”

You smirked, leaning closer, practically nose-to-nose now. “What? ‘Function in—’”

“NOOOOOO!” He threw a pillow over his head like it would shield him from the embarrassment. His muffled voice emerged, cracked and frantic. “I REGRET EVERYTHING!”

You snorted and pulled the pillow away, tossing it aside. “Hater. Look at me.” He hesitated, then peeked out like a spooked cartoon character. “This is supposed to be fun. Not a science project. You don’t need to memorize diagrams or research cosmic anatomy.”

“YOU SAY THAT LIKE IT’S EASY!” he burst out, sitting up slightly but still trapped beneath you, flailing one arm dramatically while the other gripped the blanket. “Do you have ANY idea how hard it is to not, uh…uhhh…” His words trailed off, and he waved vaguely at you, his eye sockets darting everywhere. “…you know! With all THIS going on?!”

You tilted your head, clearly enjoying his meltdown. “Oh, you mean my general aura of irresistibility?”

“Yes! That!” He gestured wildly again, nearly knocking over a nearby lava lamp. “It’s…It’s too much! You’re too much! My brain—or, you know, the equivalent—just…just shuts down when you’re this close!”

“Flattering,” you said with a grin, settling your hands on his bony shoulders. “But if you don’t stop vibrating at the frequency of a broken blender, you’re gonna combust.”

“Combust?!” His jaw dropped, his neon aura flaring briefly. “Is that a thing that happens?! DO PEOPLE COMBUST?! WHY DIDN’T GOOGLE TELL ME THIS?!”

You leaned back, laughing so hard that tears formed at the corners of your eyes. “Oh, Hater, you absolute disaster of a skeleton.”

“STOP LAUGHING!” he whined, his hands flopping uselessly against his sides. “You’re making this worse!”

“Worse?” You wiped at your eyes, finally calming down enough to lean in closer again, this time planting a quick kiss on his nasal ridge. “Sweetheart, you couldn’t mess this up if you tried.”

“W-Wait…” He froze, the green in his eyes flickering slightly. “…Sweetheart?”

You blinked innocently. “What? Not used to pet names?”

“Well, yeah, I mean—no! I mean—UGH!” He covered his face again, practically melting into the mattress. “Why are you like this?!”

You leaned down, your smug grin softening into something more genuine. “Because you’re worth it, even when you’re a total dweeb.”

“Am not,” he mumbled weakly, his voice small.

“Are too,” you teased, resting your forehead against his. “Now quit overthinking and enjoy the moment.”

“Okay, but, like…” He shifted nervously, his voice a whisper. “What if I mess up? Like…big time?”

You smiled softly, cupping his face. “Then we laugh about it. Together. Deal?”

He hesitated, his neon green gaze meeting yours. Then, slowly, a lopsided grin crept across his skeletal face. “Deal. But, uh, just…maybe give me a heads-up if I’m about to do something stupid?”

“Trust me, I will,” you said with a wink.

For the first time that evening, he seemed to relax. Well, until his foot twitched and knocked over the lava lamp. “WHOOPS!” he yelled, scrambling to catch it, only to knock over the taquitos in the process. You couldn’t stop the laughter that bubbled out as chaos erupted once more in the lair of love. He on the other hand scrambled to salvage the remains of the taquitos, scooping up the debris like he was handling priceless artifacts. “NOOO! NOT THE TAQUITOS! THEY WERE LIMITED EDITION!”

“Limited edition?!” you cackled, clutching your stomach as you watched the “Greatest in the Galaxy” cradle the soggy tortilla remains like a tragic hero mourning his fallen comrades. “Hater, they came out of a freezer box!”

“NOT JUST ANY FREEZER BOX!” he howled, glaring at you with all the fury his glowing eyes could muster. “These were…these were…uh…” He hesitated, looking at the destroyed snacks like they might whisper their secrets. “…Fiery Fiesta Flavor!”

“Fiery Fiesta Flavor?” you deadpanned, raising an eyebrow. “Wow, that’s…culinary genius. Truly, your tastes are as refined as your pickup lines.”

“HEY!” He jabbed a bony finger at you, his indignation puffing up like a blowfish. “My pickup lines are legendary! You fell for them, didn’t you?”

You snorted, crossing your arms as you leaned back on your heels. “Oh, yeah. ‘Did it hurt when you fell from…somewhere? Probably the cafeteria? 'Cause you’re, like, tall.’ Real Shakespearean, Hater.”

He spluttered, his glowing aura flaring in mortified bursts. “W-Well, excuse me for not being a professional wooer! You’re lucky I even tried!”

“Tried?” you teased, leaning in close enough to make him flinch. “Sweetheart, you tripped over your cloak and landed face-first in your nachos.”

“That was STRATEGIC!” he insisted, crossing his arms and turning his skull dramatically to the side, like a soap opera villain. “I was…uh…distracting you! Yeah, to throw you off your game! Classic Evil Overlord Tactic #87!”

“Uh-huh.” You leaned back on his legs, tapping your chin like you were considering his words. “And the part where you screamed ‘SAVE ME, MY LOVE!’ while the Watchdogs hosed you down with cheese dip?”

“…Improvisation,” he muttered, the green of his eyes dimming as he sulked.

You laughed so hard you nearly toppled off him, clutching his pajama-clad knee for balance. “Oh my stars, Hater, you are just…you’re priceless.”

“YEAH, WELL…” He sat up straighter, waving his arms like an angry conductor. “AT LEAST I DON’T…uh…wear shirts that are basically two shoelaces tied together!”

You gasped in mock offense, placing a hand dramatically on your chest. “How dare you insult my impeccable sense of fashion?”

“IMPECCABLE?!” He gestured wildly at your outfit—or lack thereof—with a mix of panic and indignation. “YOU’RE BARELY WEARING ANYTHING! How am I supposed to concentrate when you’re—when you’re—!”

“Distracting you?” you supplied smugly.

“EXACTLY!” he bellowed, pointing at you like you’d just proven his case in court. “How am I supposed to be the intimidating Lord Hater when you’re over here, all…all…”

“Say it,” you challenged, your grin widening.

“All HOT AND STUFF!” he yelled, his voice cracking like a firework. Then he immediately slapped both hands over his nonexistent mouth, his green aura flickering like a faulty lightbulb. “I MEAN, UH…EVIL! ALL EVIL AND STUFF!”

You stared at him, your grin practically splitting your face in half. “Aw, Hater…did you just call me hot?”

“NO!” he shrieked, flailing again and nearly falling off the bed. “SHUT UP! I TAKE IT BACK!”

“Oh, you definitely said it,” you teased, crawling forward to trap him against the headboard. “Admit it. You think I’m hot.”

“NEVER!” he declared, but his voice cracked again, betraying him.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” you said with a laugh, leaning down so your noses (well, for Hater where his nose would be) nearly touched. “But maybe next time, try saying it without sounding like a dying space rooster.”

“SPACE ROOSTER?!” he exclaimed, his hands clutching his nonexistent heart. “HOW DARE YOU INSULT MY VOICE?! My voice is…is…iconic!”

“Iconically screechy,” you shot back, flicking his cheek.

Before he could respond, the lava lamp—which had been wobbling dangerously on the edge of the nightstand—finally gave up the ghost and crashed to the floor with a spectacular splatter of neon goo.

Both of you froze, staring at the mess.

“…Well,” you said, breaking the silence, “at least the taquitos aren’t lonely anymore.”

Hater let out a dramatic groan, collapsing back against the pillows like the universe itself was conspiring against him. “This is a DISASTER!”

You couldn’t stop the grin that spread across your face. “Nah. This is us.”

Then, you raised an eyebrow, still straddling Hater as he dramatically threw his arm over his face like some fainting Victorian maiden. The room was a mess, half-eaten taquitos, the green liquid on the floor, and the lingering sound of your laughter. But then, a mischievous idea crept into your mind. If Hater thought he was flustered now…well, you were about to crank it up to eleven. “So,” you drawled, leaning back slightly and trailing your fingers up your sides in a way that was anything but innocent. “Since we’re here, and we’re all…prepared…”

Hater’s glowing eyes widened, his entire frame going rigid as you reached for the hem of your shirt. “W-WAIT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” he yelped, his voice hitting a pitch that could probably shatter the Skullship’s windows.

“Relax, drama king,” you said with a smirk, your fingers toying with the edge of the already scandalously short fabric. “Just…getting comfortable.”

“COMFORTABLE?!” he screeched, scrambling to sit up so quickly that his oversized pajama top bunched around his ribs. “THAT DOESN’T LOOK COMFORTABLE! THAT LOOKS LIKE—LIKE—”

“Like what?” you asked, your tone as innocent as a supernova. “What does it look like, Hater?”

“LIKE YOU’RE ABOUT TO—TO—AAAAAAH!” His panicked shriek interrupted him as you began lifting the hem of your shirt a fraction of an inch. And just as you were about to give him a real show, his bony hand shot out like a rocket and slapped yours away with a loud CLAP.

You froze, staring at him in disbelief. “Did you just—”

“I PANICKED!” he wailed, clutching your wrist like it was some kind of lifeline. “I—YOU—STOP TRYING TO MAKE ME EXPLODE!”

“Explode?” you repeated, your lips twitching as you tried—and failed—not to laugh. “Hater, sweetie, if this is enough to make you explode, we’ve got some serious endurance training to do.”

“ENDURANCE?!” he repeated, his entire body flailing as though the word had personally offended him. “WHY DOES THAT SOUND LIKE A THREAT?!”

“It’s not a threat,” you said, leaning forward until your faces were inches apart. “It’s a promise.”

His jaw fell open, his neon green aura flickering wildly as if his very soul was short-circuiting. “YOU CAN’T JUST SAY STUFF LIKE THAT!” he yelled, slapping his hands over his face to block you out. “I NEED A WARNING! A DISCLAIMER! A—A MANUAL OR SOMETHING!”

You tilted your head, tapping a finger thoughtfully against your chin. “You know, I think I saw something like that in one of your weird comic books. Should I go grab it?”

“NO!” he practically screamed, his hands flopping uselessly against his sides. “JUST—JUST STAY RIGHT THERE AND STOP BEING ALL…ALL…”

“All what?” you pressed, grinning like a cat toying with a particularly twitchy mouse.

“HOT!” he burst out, immediately clapping both hands over his mouth like the word had escaped on its own. “I MEAN—NOT HOT! DEFINITELY NOT HOT! YOU’RE JUST…INTENSELY WARM!”

You blinked, momentarily stunned by the sheer absurdity of his phrasing. And then, once again, you dissolved into uncontrollable laughter, collapsing onto his chest and clutching his pajama top for support. “Intensely warm?!” you managed between gasps, tears streaming down your cheeks. “Oh my stars, Hater, you’re killing me!”

“GOOD!” he snapped, glaring down at you with all the indignation a flustered skeleton could muster. “MAYBE THEN I’LL FINALLY GET SOME PEACE AND QUIET!”

You wiped at your eyes, still grinning as you propped yourself up on his ribcage. “Oh, come on. Admit it—you love this.”

“I love NOTHING!” he bellowed, his voice cracking halfway through. “I am EVIL! HEARTLESS! TERRIFYING! And also, uh…” He paused, his glowing green eyes darting anywhere but your face. “…very confused.”

“Confused, huh?” you teased, settling back onto his lap with a smirk. “Want me to clarify things for you?”

“NO!” he yelped, throwing up his hands as though surrendering to your chaotic energy. “YES! I MEAN—UGH! WHY IS THIS SO HARD?!”

“You mean besides you?” you said innocently, your grin growing wider as his aura flickered like a malfunctioning lightbulb.

“OH MY GROP!” he wailed, flopping back against the pillows like a dramatic Shakespearean character. “I’M NEVER GONNA SURVIVE THIS!”  You were just about to tease him again when he suddenly shot upright, pointing an accusing finger at the air like he was in a courtroom drama. “You know,” he began, his voice rising with the energy of someone about to launch into a conspiracy theory, “I wouldn’t even be in this mess if it weren’t for that STUPID forum!”

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “…Forum?”

“YES! The one I found while, uh…RESEARCHING,” he said, the word “researching” dripping with defensive air quotes. “I was looking for, uh, information, and SOME ABSOLUTE IDIOT DECIDED TO PICK A FIGHT WITH ME!”

“Oh no,” you said, biting back a grin. “Who would dare challenge the mighty Lord Hater?”

“EXACTLY!” he shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “It’s like they didn’t even KNOW who they were talking to! I left them a totally reasonable comment about how skeletons OBVIOUSLY have the superior anatomy for, uh, certain activities—”

You snorted. “Reasonable. Sure.”

“—and then THEY had the NERVE to respond with all this mushy, sentimental CRAP about ‘connection’ and ‘trust’ and how ‘the heart is what really matters.’ UGH!” He threw his head back like the memory physically pained him. “What kind of weirdo says stuff like that?!”

“Sounds like a real nightmare,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “What did you say back?”

“Oh, I told them off, of course!” Hater declared, puffing out his chest like he’d just won a Nobel Prize in stupidity. “‘Cause they were all like, ‘Oh, LordHaterFan420, maybe you just need to let love guide you,’ and I was like, ‘MAYBE YOU NEED TO LET A DOOR HIT YOU ON THE WAY OUT!’”

You blinked, barely able to process what you were hearing. “…LordHaterFan420?”

“IT’S AN ALIAS!” he barked defensively. “Anyway, they kept coming back with more of that same wishy-washy garbage, like, ‘Love isn’t about being perfect, it’s about being there for each other,’ and ‘You’re braver than you think!’ Like, WHO TALKS LIKE THAT?!”

You tapped your chin thoughtfully, fighting the urge to laugh. “Yeah, who does talk like that?”

“And THEN—get this—they had the AUDACITY to sign off with ‘Hope you find what you’re looking for, friend!’ Like we’re FRIENDS or something! I don’t even KNOW THEM! I told them they were the WORST, and you know what they said?”

“What?” you asked, genuinely intrigued now.

Hater’s voice dropped into a mockingly sweet tone, his skeletal face contorting into a grimace. “‘That’s okay! I’m rooting for you anyway!’ CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?!”

...

“Wow,” you said, nodding seriously. “What a horrible person.”

“I KNOW, RIGHT?!” he yelled, flailing his arms. “Who says something like that to a guy who just insulted them?! It’s like they were trying to…to make me feel bad or something! UGH!”

You leaned forward, narrowing your eyes slightly. “You know…this ‘absolute idiot’ sounds kind of familiar.”

“No way!” Hater scoffed, crossing his arms. “I mean, they were WAY too nice to be anyone I know. And they mentioned having a house, so it DEFINITELY couldn’t be—”

“Wander?” you finished, watching his aura freeze mid-flicker.

Hater blinked. “What?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You know, Wander? Little orange guy? Hat that defies the laws of physics? Pretty sure he doesn’t have a house, though. Not unless you count Sylvia.”

“PFFFFT!” Hater waved you off, laughing nervously. “No way that was Wander! Wander doesn’t even have INTERNET! He’s, like, a hobo or something! Besides, he wouldn’t…he wouldn’t…” His voice trailed off as realization slowly dawned on him.

“Oh my stars,” you whispered, your grin widening. “It was Wander, wasn’t it?”

“NO!” Hater yelled, his aura flaring violently. “SHUT UP! IT WASN’T HIM! THERE’S NO WAY!”

“You argued with Wander on a forum,” you said, barely able to contain your laughter. “And he called you his friend.”

“TAKE THAT BACK!” Hater screeched, shaking his fists like an enraged toddler. “WANDER IS NOT MY FRIEND! HE’S MY ENEMY! MY NEMESIS! MY—MY—UGH!” He collapsed back onto the pillows, covering his face with his hands. “WHY IS EVERYTHING IN MY LIFE TERRIBLE?!”

“Terrible?” you teased, leaning down so your faces were only inches apart. “You’re dating me, remember?”

“YEAH, WELL, EVEN YOU CAN’T FIX THIS!” he whined, peeking at you through his fingers. “I ARGUED WITH WANDER ON THE INTERNET! I’LL NEVER LIVE THIS DOWN!”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you said, your grin downright wicked now. “I’ll make sure you don’t.”

“NOOOOOO!” Hater’s anguished wail echoed through the room, his voice cracking and rising in pitch until it could probably summon bats from orbit. His arms flailed wildly, the dramatic thrashing knocking over what was left of the taquitos and dislodging a precariously balanced stack of comic books.

You leaned back, arms crossed, grinning like a villain enjoying their masterpiece. “Wow. A meltdown worthy of the ‘Greatest in the Galaxy.’”

“I DON’T NEED YOUR SARCASM RIGHT NOW!” He screeched, his glowing eyes blazing like neon fireflies on a sugar high. “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT THIS MEANS?! IF WANDER WAS ON THAT FORUM—THAT MEANS—THAT MEANS—” He flailed harder, his voice dropping to a horrified whisper. “—HE KNOWS!”

“Knows what?” you teased, leaning on your elbow with an air of exaggerated innocence. “That you called him the worst and he still rooted for you when you wanted to woo me?”

“STOP SAYING IT!” he bellowed, grabbing a pillow and smacking himself in the face with it repeatedly. “THIS IS A NIGHTMARE! I’LL NEVER RECOVER!” As if on cue, the glowing lightning bolt emblem on Hater’s bony hand lit up with a buzz. His “phone,” a cursed feature he insisted was “cool,” but mostly served as a one-way ticket to more headaches, came to life. The unmistakable voice of Commander Peepers crackled through, sharp and irate.

“SIR!” Peepers snapped, his tone so biting it could slice through steel. “What in the galaxy is going on? I’m trying to work, and I can hear your screaming all the way from the command center!”

Hater froze mid-flail, clutching his glowing hand like he could somehow muffle it. “P-Peepers! It’s not what it sounds like!”

“Oh, really?” Peepers deadpanned, clearly unimpressed. “Because it sounds like you’re throwing another one of your tantrums while I’m over here trying to keep this ship from imploding.”

“I AM NOT HAVING A TANTRUM!” The skeleton screeched, his voice cracking spectacularly.

“Uh-huh,” The Watchdog replied, the sound of furious typing clicking in the background. “And what exactly are you screaming about this time? Did you lose another ‘evil lair’ auction on SpaceBay?”

“NO!” Hater snapped, his aura flaring green again. “It’s worse than that! MUCH WORSE!”

“Worse?” Peepers sounded genuinely exhausted. “What could possibly be worse?”

“He—” You leaned forward, your grin downright malicious as you interrupted. “—found out he argued with Wander on an internet forum.”

The silence on the other end of the line was deafening.

“…What?” Peepers finally said, his voice slow and flat.

“It wasn’t him!” Hater yelled, clutching his glowing hand as though Peepers’ disapproval could somehow physically manifest through it. “IT COULDN’T HAVE BEEN HIM!”

“Oh, for stars’ sake…” The smaller villain groaned, and you could practically hear him pinching the bridge of his nonexistent nose. “Sir, do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound?”

“It’s not ridiculous!” Hater protested, his voice rising again. “He was all like, ‘Hope you find what you’re looking for, friend,’ and—OH MY BONES, IT WAS HIM, WASN’T IT?!”

Peepers sighed heavily, the sound of his frustration carrying through the connection like a weighted sigh of the universe. “Let me get this straight. You were arguing with Wander—on the INTERNET—about…what exactly?”

“ANATOMY!” Hater screeched, instantly regretting it as you burst into laughter next to him.

Peepers was silent for a beat, likely wondering why his life had spiraled into this moment. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m not even surprised.”

“You’re supposed to be on MY side!” Hater whined, flopping dramatically back onto the pillows.

“I AM on your side,” The other man snapped. “Which is why I’m calling to tell you to stop yelling like a lunatic and ACT LIKE A LEADER!”

“But—”

“No buts!” Peepers barked. “And while you’re at it, tell your girlfriend to stop encouraging you.”

You gave the phone-hand a two-finger salute, still grinning. “Encouraging him is half the fun, Peepers.”

“Yeah, well, don’t come crying to me when he accidentally declares war on the Galactic Peace Federation because he’s ‘flustered.’” His voice was flat, but the weight of someone who had dealt with this far too many times. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, SOMEONE has to actually run this ship.”

The line went dead, leaving Hater sulking and muttering, “I don’t need him anyway,” as you laughed so hard you nearly fell off the bed.

After a moment, your boyfriend just lay flat on the bed, staring up at the ceiling with the defeated air of someone who had just lost an intergalactic chess match against a feral squirrel. “This is officially the worst day of my life,” he groaned.

You, still perched comfortably on his lap, couldn’t help but smirk. “Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad.”

“WASN’T THAT BAD?!” he screeched, sitting up so fast that you nearly toppled backward. “I got called friend by my greatest nemesis, Peepers yelled at me—AGAIN—and now you’re probably going to make fun of me for the rest of eternity!”

“Rest of eternity?” you mused, pretending to think it over. “I mean, that’s a long time, but yeah…sounds fun.”

He let out a dramatic groan, collapsing back onto the bed. “I give up. Just end me now.”

“Not happening, bones-for-brains,” you said, poking his ribcage with a finger. “But maybe…” You hesitated, your smirk softening into a genuine smile. “…maybe we can save the ‘big moment’ for another day. You know, when you’re not emotionally traumatized by the internet.”

He peeked at you from behind his bony hands, his glowing eyes flickering uncertainly. “You’re not…mad or anything?”

“Mad?” you laughed, leaning down to plant a soft kiss on his nasal ridge. “Hater, sweetie, you’re more fun flustered than you’d ever be smooth.”

“I AM smooth!” he protested weakly, his aura flickering in embarrassment.

“Uh-huh.” You patted his skull affectionately before sliding off his lap and grabbing his glowing hand. “Now, come on. Let’s do something we’re both good at.”

He blinked, his confusion clear. “What’s that?”

“Causing chaos,” you said with a wicked grin, falling down beside him on your back as the water bed made you bounce slightly. “If Wander’s out there spreading sunshine and rainbows on the forums, it’s only fair we balance the scales with some good old-fashioned trolling.”

His jaw dropped, his aura flaring with sudden excitement. “Wait…you mean—?”

“Oh, yeah,” you said, grabbing your phone from the nightstand and putting in your password. “We’re diving headfirst into the depths of online chaos. Fuzzballs and sunshine lovers, beware.”

Hater’s eyes glowed brighter, and for the first time all evening, his grin returned. “This is the best idea you’ve ever had.”

“I know,” you said smugly, leaning into him as you searched through the forums. “Now, let’s see…what should our alias be? ‘TotallyNotHater420?’”

“NO!” he yelled, flailing. “Make it something evil! Like…like…‘SkullKingDoomBlaster9000!’”

You snorted. “Subtle. Very subtle.”

“Hey, subtle is for losers!” he declared, grabbing your device and frantically jabbing at the buttons. “Now type it in, and let’s show those fuzzy weirdos who’s boss!”

And so, the night that had started as a romantic disaster turned into a legendary session of forum chaos. Together, you and Hater flooded the internet with ridiculous insults, absurd gifs, and enough caps-locked rants to make any mod cry. Somewhere out there, Wander was probably smiling, completely oblivious to the chaos he had unintentionally inspired.

And Hater?

For once, he looked genuinely happy, cackling like the villain he always claimed to be. Sure, the “deed” could wait for another day—but for now, this was your idea of a perfect night.

[innerworlds-imagined]

heyooo, not the best at requesting so my apologies if i come off rude, but can I have a cyberpunk-esque hi-tech city? or something with a similar vibe - no specifications, but near an ocean or sea would be appreciated, and feel free to add npcs if you so wish, though it is certainly not a requirement!

kind regards, & no rush!

Hi, Anon! You didn't come off as rude at all! We can definitely make this happen for you! We hope you like it, and let us know if you'd like any changes made! We had a lot of fun with this one - a few headmates were really enjoying the neon lights aspect of things!

Cyberpunk Headspace

The City

.•*𓆩🎧𓆪*•.

The main headspace setting here is the large, cityscape-like space. A headmate could be anywhere here doing anything that their heart desires! There is something within this place for anyone of any age with any personality. In addition to the advantage of having a plethora of activities to do here, there is also the beauty aspect. One could sit outside on a rooftop of a building or the balcony of a skyscraper and just look over the sight of the headspace lit up by thousands of bright, neon lights.

Transportation

༺⁺‧₊ཐི ❤︎ ཋྀ ₊‧⁺༻

There are many modes of transportation within this headspace. If one still wishes to remain traditional, there are still normal cars, trains, buses, etc. However, if one wants to explore just how neat this place can get, then one might experiment with things like hover trains, flying cars, airships, etc. It all depends on personal preference. The interior of these modes of transportation are nothing short of remarkable, though. Custom options that you could only imagine to be true today.

The Café

༺⁺‧₊ཐི ❤︎ ཋྀ ₊‧⁺༻

The café is a place that's open any time of the day - 24/7, 365. This way, any headmate can eat at any time. We understand there can be those who may like to eat at normal times throughout the day, but we also understand that there may be headmates who like to have midnight snacks as well.

The menu is extensive, taking care to consider everyone's individual preferences and any allergies that headmates may have. From crêpes and waffles to burgers and sandwiches to steaks and pastas and even desserts, this café has everything to offer! Not only does this café serve as a place to eat, but it also serves as a place for fun. Either scattered about or having a back room completely dedicated to them, there are both classic arcade games lining the walls as well as video gaming systems and virtual reality headsets. Whether you're waiting for your food or simply coming in for a bit of entertainment, there is a game here for all ages.

Bedrooms / Meeting Space

༺⁺‧₊ཐི ❤︎ ཋྀ ₊‧⁺༻

Imagine having a space to call your very own in this headspace. A place where you can not only hang out and relax, but also turn into a place that can serve as a meet-up without even having to leave the comfort of your own bed.

Bedrooms can, of course, be designed to a headmate's personal liking; however, imagine the possibilities. Bright lights lining the perimeter of the ceilings (or dimmer lighting if a headmate has a harder time with bright lights), colours of any choice. Also, forget about whiteboards, calendars, and to-do lists that are only going to get lost. Instead, say hello to screens built right onto your bedroom walls that hold all of the information you need to know for any occasion and any scenario. The best part about this is that if you want these monitors off for any reason, you can simply power them down with the click of a remote, and the screens are no longer visible. Imagine their effect to be similar to a hologram. A computer monitor or two are set up in the room - these could be for multiple purposes. One could be solely for online gaming while the other could be for meetings with other headmates.

Speaking of headmate meetings, they're made easy here. Meetings can take place anytime, anywhere. The best part is that not everyone needs to be in the same place at the same time. In a headspace like this, everyone has a high-tech communication device on them at all times. Headmate A can be in their bedroom and meet up on the computer while Headmate B can join in this meeting from their phone or watch while out for a walk. Meanwhile, Headmate C is driving - their car can describe exactly what's being demonstrated if needed while also presenting them physically to other people in the meeting so they can be present as well. There are no limits to what can be done here. I suppose if you wanted to be really advanced, teleportation could be a thing, and everyone could simply teleport to their pre-determined meeting place if everyone wanted to meet face-to-face.

The Oceanside

༺⁺‧₊ཐི ❤︎ ཋྀ ₊‧⁺༻

A special place to be in this headspace is the oceanside. Away from all the craziness of the city, this is somewhere that headmates can come to relax and take in the calming beauty of nature. The sand can be felt beneath one's feet, getting cooler and more damp the closer you get to the water. Footsteps are left behind you, though quickly washed away by the water rising and falling back with the tides. Here, you're not only met with the outstanding bioluminescence of the water but also the reflection of the distant city lights on the water in front of you. Laying down on the sand, one can close their eyes and listen to the waves crash, and feel the sea air brush up against their face - run through their hair.

Without so much light from the city, you can also see the stars above you in the evening, noting all of the constellations and galaxies that loom above.

Post Divider Credit: @k1ssyoursister & @xaerainy

[darling-i-read-it]

Neon Eyes

Delsin Rowe x fem!reader

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: heavy insinuations to smut (like basically leads up to smut and then afterwards but I’m always too lazy to write it. Use your imagination lol), delsin nervous you wont accept him 

Author’s Note: the annual playthrough of second son had begun <;3 

Summary: Delsin struggles to tell you about his new powers, even though he wants nothing more than to be held by you. 

Song: Polaroid by Imagine Dragons was weirdly on repeat. 

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director/creator

(not my gif)

Delsin looked at his phone. He flicked through his contacts, hovering over each one. The air was crisp in Seattle. It felt much more processed than it did back home, like it was muffled by all the smoke coming out of buildings. Granted, he couldn’t exactly complain about the smoke thing. It happened to be incredibly beneficial to him. 

He hovered over Betty’s name. He should call her back. He had been avoiding her calls, though not intentionally. She just kept calling him at inopportune times. He passed her name. Reggie was at the top of his recently called list. Delsin skipped him easily. As he kept going, he landed on a name that filled his stomach with warmth. 

You. 

He should call you. No, he shouldn’t call you. He wanted to call you. There was a difference. Delsin kicked his feet back and forth, looking down past his phone. He was sitting on a balcony, a couple floors above the ground. The world had turned into specks below him. He wanted to call you. 

He didn't want to get you in trouble. 

He wanted to hear your voice. 

“Goddamnit,” Delsin muttered and pushed your name. It highlighted and then started to ring. Immediately regretting it, Delsin hung up. He shouldn’t have done that. You had surely heard about what happened with the tribe, maybe even heard about his new condition. Maybe Reggie had called you already. Delsin made a face at the thought. He didn’t want his brother talking to you period, let alone about him. 

Delsin jumped. His phone was ringing. Your name hovered on his screen. 

“Oh fuck,” he grumbled. He held the phone with both hands so he wouldn’t drop it. He stared at it for a moment too long, listening to his ringtone. 

After a long moment, he answered the call. 

“Hello?”

“Hey D! Did you call me on purpose?” God, he was right. Your voice had already soothed him. Childhood friends, turned something else, staying something else. 

“Butt dialed, my bad!” He scratched the back of his neck. “Actually, I lied.” 

“You tend to do that.” He chuckled, looking down at his feet, dangling. 

“It’s nice to hear your voice,” he said and he meant it.

“Yours too.” Your voice had gone soft. “What are you doing? Are you around home?” He shook his head even though you couldn’t see it. 

“No. I’m in Seattle.” 

“With all that shit going on?” you asked. Even though your voice was practically disembodied, it felt like laying in soft grass in the summer or getting in bed after a long day. It made him weirdly emotional. 

“Yeah, I chose the worst time for a vacation.” 

“Is Reggie with you?”

“Why would I bring Reggie on a vacation?” 

“Is anyone with you?” “Reggie.” You laughed. It felt like a cloud. Your words started with a hum, a comforting noise. Delsin hadn’t noticed how badly this whole thing had affected him. He had been going without stopping for so long he hadn’t even thought about it. His home was effectively ruined if he didn’t finish this. His life had been turned upside down by these new powers and responsibilities. 

“Seriously though, what are you doing out there? Is this about that attack on the tribe?” 

“You could say that. So Reggie hasn’t called you?” 

“Nope. You Rowe boys are avoiding me like the plague these days.” He chuckled. 

“We’ve just been busy,” he explained. “You haven’t talked to Betty?” 

“Nope. Believe it or not, I’ve been stuck in Seattle too. I came down yesterday for a concert and got stuck with all this DUP stuff. Guess we both have bad taste in day adventures.” 

“I guess we do.” You didn’t know. You had no idea what he was. He was just Delsin to you, the same person he had always been. ”Well while you’re stuck here, you wouldn’t wanna meet up would you?” 

“Are you staying somewhere?” 

“This isn’t a booty call,” he promised, voice deadly serious.

“I know that Delsin.” Your laugh moved to a small giggle. “I just meant, where should I meet you and it came out more aggressive than I intended.” 

“Oh! Oh yeah. I didn’t mean it either.” 

“I want to see you. Where are you?” you said slowly, in case he didn’t get it. 

“I’ll come to you. I’m quick on my feet these days.” 

“Alright well I’m staying in Capitol Hill, by the market. I’lll text you the address.” 

-

You were waiting in the lobby for him. There was smoke trailing behind him as he came in through the automatic doors. He knew he had more pressing things to do. He had people to save and he had things to break.

But at the moment he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. 

“Delsin!” you exclaimed, standing up. You stood up, putting down the book you were reading. He practically hopped over to you, always light on his feet. He threw his arms around you and engulfed you completely. “Oof. You alright?” 

“Better now.” 

“Delsin, you’re acting weird,” you noted. He pulled away, holding your arms in his hands. “Why do you have a chain around your wrist?” You watched him, eyes scanning his figure. Something was up, you just couldn’t put your finger on what. 

“I need to tell you something.” 

“You’re scaring me,” you whispered. He looked around the lobby. There were stragglers around, too many people to give you any kind of demonstration. 

“I was back home when a conduit broke into The Lodge.” Your eyebrows furrowed. “Augustine caught this guy, Hank, and he had these weird smoke powers. He tried to hurt Betty and Reggie. I grabbed him and something happened. I like, grabbed his hand and saw his whole life. And then…then I like..” He was fidgeting out of anxiety. He looked around again. He was practically oozing with stress. 

“Delsin.” 

“He gave me some of his powers.” You stared at each other, eyes locked, mere inches apart. 

“What do you mean?” Your voice had hushed. He didn’t answer right away, which made you antsy. “Delsin.” 

“C’here.” He grabbed your wrist and pulled you out the front doors. You followed him wordlessly as he took you around the back of the building where there were nothing but cars. You watched him attentively as he let go of your hand, raised his, and shot something out of the sky. 

You yelped in surprise. 

“Delsin?! What was that?!” 

“I’m...I'm a conduit,” he said, voice quiet. It still felt weird on his lips, like the words weren't exactly true.

You stared at each other, eyes wide and searching. You went very quiet for a moment. He swore he could hear his heart beating in his ears. For some reason this was scarier than feeling the powers at all. 

You had heard all the propaganda about bio terrorists. You had seen what they could do to your home and your family. You also were very aware of the man standing in front of you. This was your best friend, the man you’ve loved for years. You knew that the DUP was killing people like him. 

And Delsin looked scared. 

You took a slow step forward. 

“Woah.” 

“Right?” he hissed. “I can float and stuff. And turn into smoke or something, I don’t know how it works biologically. I just know I can do a lot of things my body couldn’t do before.” You closed the distance and grabbed his hands, putting his palms to the air. You traced the creases, shaking your head. 

“Shit Del,” you muttered. “What did Reggie say?” 

“He still thinks we’re here to find a cure. "I'm here to get Augustine’s powers and help the tribe.”

“You think it’ll work?” 

“It’s all I got right now.”

“So why did you call me?” 

Delsin's whole body had relaxed with your reaction. You didn’t see him any differently. There was no fear in your eyes. He wanted to complain about everyone else's reactions, fill you in on everything that had happened. 

“I just wanted to see you.” Your face softened. 

“Oh.” 

“Maybe I could crash at your hotel room too.” You scoffed, hitting him. “I met this other girl too though, she lives in a billboard. I could always crash with her…” 

“Alright alright. You’ve guilted me into it.” 

-

It was a one bed hotel room. Delsin didn’t mind that one bit. You offered it to him easily and after some light banter, you agreed you should just share it. 

The sun had gone down over the Seattle skyline. Delsin sat at the edge of the bed as you got dressed for bed. He had no extra clothes. He would make some joke about sleeping naked and you would likely let him strip down to his boxers. You had seen him naked before.

“Are you gonna sleep in that beanie?” 

“When have you ever seen me sleep in the beanie?” You shrugged, coming out of the bathroom door.

“Could be a new thing you’re trying.” You sat down beside him. He turned to you, both of his feet still planted on the ground. You put your legs underneath you and faced him with your entire body, taking the beanie off his head. You ran your hand through his hat hair that was smashed down. “Can I see the neon again?” He laughed. 

“I’m like your circus clown.” 

“My court jester.” 

He put up his finger, lightly tracing the air with a pink neon. He spelled out your name in the empty space. You smiled like a child, watching eagerly. You turned your head back to him, eyes narrowing gently. 

He put his hand on your thigh. The silence was familiar and comfortable. 

“Do you think your eyes go neon when you…you know,” you quipped, your smile turning sly. He rolled his eyes with his whole head, squeezing your thigh. 

“You wanna find out?” 

-

Delsin rested his head on your chest. It was the most relaxed he had been in days. Weeks. You had your arm wrapped around his shoulder, your hand playing in his hair. You were tracing circles into his scalp, pulling lightly at his roots, brushing out his knots. 

He hadn’t been this safe since he first got his powers. 

“I did think you were gonna blast a smoke hole through me,” you said, voice quiet. The air conditioning was the only actual sound in the room. The lights were off, submerging you in darkness. 

“I had it completely under control.” You tilted your head down to look at him, laughing a bit. 

“That pillow is only feathers now,” you accused. 

“The pillow isn’t you.” You shook your head a bit. He nestled into your chest, putting his arm tighter around you. 

There was a long beat of silence. Just breathing. A room empty of any expectations. 

“Thank you for not freaking out when you saw me,” he breathed. 

“Thank you for not changing who you are.” You pressed a kiss against his head and it stayed there, lingering. “You’re in the line of fire now D.” 

“I know.” 

“I don’t want you to get hurt. You or Reg.” 

“I know.” 

“Can you promise me you won’t get hurt in the name of sheer goodness?” He nodded sleepily. 

“I’ve never broken my word to you babe.” You liked it when he called you babe. It came off his lips so effortlessly. “Thanks for letting me crash here.” You scoffed. 

“You’re always welcome to whatever bed I sleep in. You knew that.”

“I did.” 

He fell asleep soon after, his breathing evening. The police were searching for him and he was with you, pretending there were no other problems in the world. He deserved that much.

[velvrei]

THIS IDEA HAS BEEN ON MY MIND 24/7 AND I FINALLY FOUND HOW TO PUT IT TO WORDS.

the party is electric, pulsing with music, laughter, and the sharp tang of tequila in the air. bodies press together in the packed frat house, neon lights casting flickering colors over the crowd. somewhere in the chaos, ethan sips awkwardly at his beer, tara sways to the music, and mindy critiques the playlist with a smirk.

but your focus? it’s been locked on him all night.

chad meeks-martin, standing across the room, leaning against the counter like he’s completely at ease. he’s been watching you, the same way he always does—cocky, amused, like he knows exactly what kind of effect he has on you.

the two of you have been playing this game since day one, trading flirtation like it’s second nature. he teases, you tease back. neither of you fold. but tonight, there’s something different in the way his eyes linger, something heavier in the way he closes the space between you.

you’re perched on the counter, swinging your legs, when he steps between them, hands braced on either side of you.

“you havin’ fun?” his voice is low, edged with something that sends a slow thrill down your spine.

your lips curve, fingers dragging lazily along the rim of your cup. “oh, tons. you?”

his eyes flick to your mouth before meeting yours again. “mmm. could be better.”

you tilt your head, playing along. “and what exactly would make it better, meeks-martin?”

his smirk deepens. “i think you already know.”

before you can fire back, a shout cuts through the air—shots. the crowd shifts, and suddenly, a bottle of tequila is being passed around, shot glasses clinking against the counter. chad finally steps back, but not before his fingers brush against your thigh, just enough to leave heat in their wake.

“hope you can keep up, sweetheart,” he murmurs, dark eyes glinting as he hands you a shot.

you roll your eyes but knock it back, the liquor burning as it slides down your throat. across from you, chad does the same, watching you over the rim of his glass.

then, because it had to be mindy, she grins and announces the next dare.

“bj shots. who’s in?”

a chorus of laughter, a few cheers, and suddenly, you’re kneeling at the counter with a group of other girls, hands behind your back, lips hovering over the shot glass.

you don’t have to look to know chad’s watching. but you do anyway.

he stands with his arms crossed, head tilted, gaze locked onto you with something dark and unreadable.

holding his stare, you lean in, wrapping your lips around the rim of the glass. slow. deliberate. teasing.

the liquor is sharp, heat curling down your throat as you tip your head back, finishing first. you let your tongue flick out, catching the last drop, and when you pull away, you don’t break eye contact.

the room around you fades—the cheers, the music, all of it.

chad doesn’t just watch. he feels it. shivers and all.

his tongue runs along the inside of his cheek, jaw tight, fingers flexing at his sides like he’s holding himself back. his eyes never leave yours, dark and locked in place, tracking every slow movement, every shift in your expression.

you rise to your feet, stepping in close, your breath ghosting over his jaw. “that good enough for you?”

his hands twitch like he wants to reach for you. like it’s killing him not to.

his voice is lower now, rougher. “you know it is.”

you let your fingers skim along his arm as you turn to walk away.

his eyes never leave you. not for a second.

…

IMSCREAMINGGG

i #lovethis

[deepdreamnights]

Song Prompt: action synthwave 80s, action movie soundtrack, 1985, pumped, sci-fi narration samples

The section was continued and re-attempted several times to get a final song-length version. Highway Hovercar has no lyrical content, or manual editing and is in the public domain.

Cover Prompt: album art, a car with wheels made of neon cyan light surges with cyan and magenta electricity, light afterimages, hovering just over the road, a nighttime scene just after sunset, vaporwave coloration and wireframe effects, a hovercar that looks like a 1985 ferarri drives along a highway with glowing neon road lines, the words “Highway Hovercar” in large 80s neon text is in the upper left corner, tron light cycle wheels

Multiple versions of the prompt were used, along with image and style prompts from previous gens. Manually edited in photoshop.

[breezybangtanbebe]

🐍Chapter Two🐍

✨masterlist✨

While most parts or Luminasia wouldnt be considered the safest, they paled in comparison to Mamba District. The central parts of the neon city were basically an amusement park versus the concentrated grit and shadows that made up the reptilian beings' territory with a crime rate so high, local authorities didn't even flag citizens for speeding through it.

Despite its unsavory reputation, there was always much entertainment to find there. Night clubs, illegal gambling spots, *ahem* nightly solicitors, drugs, cheap liqour, debauchery...

Aaaaand Trouble. Never a shortage of that.

Megan hadnt made it her business to spend much time around these parts in years, finding her fair share of all of those things and more. In the time that she did , however, she obtained a decent lay of the land. Which was useful to her when needing a stealthy way in and out on missions like this.

Her bike purred quietly as it came to a full stop in the grime-coated backstreet alley, and her view of the warehouse was centered several feet ahead of her.

Black and brown bricks soaked in the evening rain, the gaping windows and crumbling architecture gave the abandoned area it's ominous appeal. At some point, the building may have been used for mass manufacturing or packaging. But now it stood as a hiding place for the forsaken or rebellious teens looking for a spot to get high or do who knows what else. An extremely peculiar place for something as valuable as a synstone to be hiding.

"Ok Phor." Megan whispers, nudging the kickstand out before swinging her leg over the bike.

The moment her heels touch the moist pavement, a wave of panic rolls over her, sending goosebumps all over her body. Something about this place had that effect on her, whether it be for good or bad reasons. She doesnt show it in her agile stride though, walking with confidence while keeping to the shadows of the alley until she reached its end.

"Im here. What's it looking like?" She speaks lowly to her trusty pup in the chair, who was already working on scoping the scene.

"Uh give me a sec. Im hacking a PD drone with some infared as we speak."

Seconds later, a buzzing drone zips over Megan's head and she watches as it hovered over the baren warehouse. As it scanned it, greenscale images of the building's interior fill Phor's screens. He types quickly, shifting the filters until he manages to get an unobscured high-resolution view of several hulking figures surround one in the middle of the vast room.

"Oh shit." the canine utters. Megan's eyes widen cautiously.

"Whatchu mean, Oh shit? Who in there?" she whispered harshly. All the while, Phor's toe beans tap frantically.

"Oh just your favorite kind of distant planet natives. Most that were so hostile that the mayor of Lumin gave them their own little hidey hold of hell in the ugliest part of the city...hehehe.." Phor chuckles nervously, zooming in on the exact location where the synstone's signature was the strongest.

"I know aint shit funny over there, Pho. Show me what you see.."

Phor obediently sent a live feed view of what he was seeing to Megan's watch. It blinked with the notification and she lifts her wrist just as the hologram rectangular screen materialized.

"Oh shit..." Megan shared Phor's grim sentiment the moment sees what he's looking at.

A grainy image of the cleared space is pulled into view. Large dangling industial lights hum overhead ans in the center one of their beams was a huddle of tall, slender reptilian figures in dark tailored, their massive tails whipping against the dusted concrete floors.

The Vortarians were a unique group of individuals that made up most of Mamba's population. They were a nasty race that had humanoid bodies covered in thick, mosaic green scales that could shift to blend in with their environments. Their sharp-clawed hands and feet could easily gut a man with one swipe, and they had black beady eyes with gold pupils used for tracking their prey in any light. Not to mention their pharyngeal jaws that opened their mouths wide enough to engulf just about anything  in a bite riddled of razor-sharp fangs that leaked acidic flesh-melting venom.

They were quite intimidating to say the least.

But their presence wasn't even the main cause for Megan's shock. She actually expected some Vortarians to be there since this was their neck of the woods. By her count, there were at least 8 of them. Barrelling through them wouldnt be an issue with what she was packing.

It was was the man that seemed to be in their custody, seated at a table with his hands bound and his lips quirked up in an unphased smirk , that had her second guessing the entire mission.

"Of course its him." she grumbles, followed by Phor's hum of agreement.

"Mmhmm..I knew I detected a Bangtanian signature when I was tracking the stone but I had no clue it would be THEE Bangtanian himself. Sheesh. No wonder theres so many Vorts on him."

Megan was vaguely attuned to Phor's assessment, but her gaze fixed heavily on the dragon-eyed leader of one of the most elite squadrons to come from the Intergalactic Hybe Force, straight out of the mystical planet of Purpura's capital city of Bora.

Who he was to the world was slightly different from who he was to her, however.

And knowing he was most likely after the same synstone that she was, made everything a million times more complicated.

[ofpineapplesanddawns]

Lucian x Peter Vincent

+ Peter gets harassed by an annoying fan/stalker and Lucian steps in to “help”

Have I written this before? I feel like I have, oh well, haha.

Warning: harassment from a fan

On with the fic!

--

Lucian didn't always attend Peter's shows, they were typically the same performances (depending on if the effects worked or if Peter was a bit too drunk and flubbed a line so he had to improvise), but he was always there at the end of the shows to wait for him.

Whether it was to go out for the night for whatever activity Peter had planned or was spontaneous about, a hunt they had planned, or just to go back up to the penthouse for so in-home activities, Lucian was always in the lobby, waiting near the doors to the theater for his boyfriend.

The staff was aware of him by now, and often told him he could wait in Peter's dressing room, but Lucian declined because Peter often just wandered out of the theater instead of going there. It pissed off the costume people, but they were used to this.

Glancing about, Lucian looked for the familiar figure, trying to spot leather and a dark brown wig. He spotted Peter near the doors to the theater, talking to some fans of his show. Lucian didn't really get the whole appeal of fanatics over things like this, but then again, he was a centuries old lycan who didn't really understand humans in general. Peter seemed pretty happy, stopping to take pictures with some of the people, be them goths and vampire fans, or even the odd tourist who got a kick out of whatever happened on stage.

But there was a familiar face nearby, hovering, waiting.

She has been at a lot of the shows lately, nearly every single one Peter did, including the matinees. She was dressed as a typical goth chick, Peter's words, and wore fake fangs. She was clutching something in her hands, it looked like a notebook, and was bouncing on her feet.

When Peter was finishing up with an autograph, the goth girl got right in front of him, chatting him up before he could even say anything. She did this often, and tried to follow Peter when he left, always trailing him towards the lifts until Rory the security guard would stop her. Lucian wondered if she'd try again tonight.

She was talking a lot, but it was hard to figure out what she was saying over the background noises of humans and the casino, but she kept looking over at Lucian, and he didn't like that. She gestured at him and then at Peter, before showing him what was in her notebook.

Peter made a face and started talking at her, putting his hand over the pages and pushing her back. Lucian decided to step in.

"-speculatin' on shit like that is just... I dunno, fuckin' weird? I mean, I made it clear I'm in a relationship online." He heard Peter speak. "And who I'm with ain't any of your business!"

"But you never show his face! You just always talk about him and show, like, his boots or even a hand, but no full pictures! And you always use a wolf emoji for the guy!" The girl huffed, jabbing at a page. "See! You never did this with your girlfriends, you always posted pictures of them and their names, why's this guy special? Is it that guy you always leave with? Or is your 'boyfriend' fake?"

"For fuck's sake..." Peter growled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why do you even care?"

"Cause it's not fair to use fans that love you if you're fakin' a relationship to avoid us!"

"What the fuck?"

"Excuse me," Lucian spoke as he approached, "is there a problem here?"

The girl glared at Lucian from behind the glasses she wore, lenses tinted a neon red and looking like they were blood drops. Peter owned a pair like them, they were tacky. "It's nothing to worry about, sir. Just asking some questions, Peter always does little Q and A's after his shows."

Lucian frowned. "Yes, I am well aware. Peter, is everything alright?"

"No." Peter huffed, crossing his arms as well as he could in that ridiculous jacket he wore. "She's askin'... personal things."

"Such as?"

"What's it to you?" She snapped. "Unless if you'd like to answer the question bugging everyone on Peter's reddit page?"

Lucian didn't know what a reddit was, but it sounded like something Peter understood, judging by the noise he made. "I am willing to answer the question."

She turned to face him, snapping her notebook shut. "What's your relationship with Peter?"

Lucian didn't like her usage of his boyfriend's first name, in a tone that said 'we're friends' even though Peter complained about her constantly, always calling her 'one of those fans that needs to touch grass'.

He glanced at Peter, who stared back, then rolled his eyes and mouthed 'fine, tell her'. Lucian looked down at her and smiled. "I'm Peter's boyfriend."

She looked very unhappy with this answer. "You're lying."

"Oh, no, young lady, I very much am. I am the one with the wolf emoji, the one he sometimes calls 'wolfy' in those ridiculous videos he posts online. I do not have social media, and I do not like being bothered or being known, and Peter respects that, he just shows glimpses and respects my privacy."

She stammered for a moment. "A-are you serious? Who the hell even are you? What's your name? People want to know!"

"Just an old soul who somehow keeps this confounding, brilliant fool in line. No need for names, Wolfy will do, I suppose. But even then, that's for Peter's use only."

He took Peter's hand, tugging him close. "Come along, love, we have plans tonight, don't we? Best to go get ready, I'm sure you don't want to go out in that getup."

"You just don't want people droolin' over my ass in these pants." Peter smirked.

"Possibly, but you hate wearing the costume and what we're doing requires more athletic clothing, you never know when you need to run." He turned them away before smiling at the goth girl. "Have a nice evening, and please stop bothering Peter about his love life. Be more invested in the ridiculous things he says online when he drinks, I'm sure that's much more interesting."

"Guh, don't mock me! I have important things to say when drunk!"

"Like when you told people the other day that for three years you thought Bat Boy was real?"

Peter started ranting about that as Lucian walked them towards the lifts, and he glanced back, seeing the very confused girl still standing by the theater doors. He smiled again, giving a little wave.

--

I'd like to think that with these two, Lucian is a complete mystery to people who are invested in Peter online. Like, where did he come from? Who is he? A bodyguard? A friend? A fuck buddy? Who knows!

Maybe one person out there is all 'hey, I swear I've seen this guy in old art when I was study werewolves', but it's one of those things like when people said Keanu Reeves is a vampire cause there are some old paintings and drawings that kinda look like him. No one thinks Lucian's a supernatural creature. :)

[neojayink]

Sketch Dump + Splatoon Neo Artist Updates

I’m nearly finished the complete plot of sneo hero story. Currently planning on how all my ideas will coincide with each other.

Hero: “Cross Contamination” - A sub plot that introduces Toxic Octolings and shows the failures of a scientist attempting to create genetically modified Octolings. Much like sanitized Octolings, the toxic octos have been contaminated and now show off zombie-like behaviors.

“Hero Team Up” - A pair of heroes on their night shift protecting the city. The left hero is physically exhausted from the mission. Neon Octolings shown carrying the new “Dauber Glove” weapons.

“Part time environmentalist” - Sketches for a story in which the main character works at a water plant facility. Currently scrapped idea as it introduced a convoluted storyline. Reworked into the Hero Night Shifts. (Protecting the Microbiome) “Water jug ink hammer” and “stream shot” seen as weapons. May be explored in the future.

“Tree Octoling Trio” - First concept for the Tree Octoling in the story. The hero will arrive to a zoo-like Forrest enclosure in search of a hidden treasure. The tree Octoling is protecting it, and has never seen an outsider before. Their natural instinct to protect their turf kicks in and a battle starts. Tree octopuses do not exist, but this one has been created in irony of that fact. They represent a successful genetic modification experiment by the scientist.

“Hype Mode” - A new mechanic that lets the player trade their heart for stat boosts. More details coming in the sneo mechanics updates.

Edit: this mechanic will be reworked into what we will call “flow state”

“Lock Jaws” - Splatoon Neo’s second official special. Will be seen after the “Supersize: Streamshot Deluxe” is shown off. The user summons a ghostly koinobori (carp/koi fish streamer ‘kite’.) The lock jaws which is made of holo ink swims through the air and surfaces to latch onto its target. Holo ink allows inklings to cast 3D projections of ink. It’s seen in many specials, but in this case, holo ink casts into a koi fish. Once locked, the enemy player will lose access to its special, sub weapon, and given negative effects such as dizziness and dillution. (Dillution makes you take more damage and deal less damage when affected)

“Turf Board” - New weapon class of surfboard + hoverboard weapons. It will be a usable method of transportation in battles. Comes with its own ink tank to let you “hover” from its fountain mechanism. Ink saver main will be your friend with this wpn as the hover mode will burn through ink. I haven’t finished the mechanics and balancing but I could see this letting you hover for at least 5 seconds. As a turfing weapon it can shoot out two streams of ink. The win animation will definitely look like how people dance with sign advertisements. Vehicles will show up in the “raceway” stage as obstacles you can drive around with ink like the turf board.

And finally,

“Neon Lotus” - Album cover concept 1. The twins have their final designs pretty much complete and they have a few songs in the works already. Their album vibe is inspired by old school sonic graphics. Surprisingly it’s harder for me to create songs for the twins vs ultramarine. It’s about 4 to 6 in difference. I’m definitely a perfectionist to neon lotus but I’m sure they’ll come out great. Over time I’ll be sharing more audio clips for both bands songs.

(This post sat in my drafts for months 😅just now checking drafts)