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selenitespeculations · 2 days ago

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It was as if the waters themselves had reached out of the pool. He’d been planted against the current, but something had grabbed his ankles - slipped under his feet - and now, Jason was being yanked through the water. The only thing keeping Danny and him from being separated by the current was the sash still wrapped around Jason’s hand.

Frantically knotting the end, fighting to drag Danny closer to him as they were sucked deeper, down into the cave with the main Pit, the water above them gaining that toxic sheen. Danny floated through line between the luminescent waters Jason was in and the venomous green of the upper half of the pit. Jason’s lungs burned, his strength waning as the oxygen deprivation caught up to him. Then he saw it.

Danny opened glowing green eyes, thrashing bringing him down out of the polluted layer and into the shining depths. They both fell, current spiraling towards a point that seemed brighter than the rest. Jason’s vision tunneled, watching Danny’s frantic movements slow. As they passed through the bright singularity at the bottom of the pit, Jason saw movement at the edge of his vision.

“Don’t worry, young Knight, the Prince will live - all is as it should be.”

~~~~~~~~~

Coughing and hacking, Jason was sore all over, opening his eyes for the second time that day to a night sky with much fewer stars than seen in the skies above Nanda Parbat.

“Danny” he whispered, whipping his pounding head around, spotting the boy next to him. Clothes still torn and bloodied, but the wound on his neck was gone.

Jason crawled over to feel for a pulse again, untying the sash on his wrist, and noted the pale scar across the tanned skin of Danny’s neck. As if the injury was years old, long healed.

“Pulse strong, regular respiration, no visible lacerations.” Jason muttered to himself, going over a checklist in his mind and he untied the sash from Danny’s waist as well, to check if the stomach wound had healed similar to the one on the boys neck. Same thing, long pale scar, this one knotted and rough, slanting across the boys belly at an angle right across his navel. Danny began twitching, eyes peeking open before bolting up and scrambling back.

“Where - where are we? What happened?” Danny asked, voice quiet and trembling.

Jason sighed, not sure how to answer that. “Not sure kid, and a whole lot. What do you remember?”

“I was stargazing.” Danny started. “Someone came up the wall.” His lip trembled slightly. “They said - they said that Grandfather no longer had use for me.” Looking down to hide the shine in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry Danny,” Jason said, “I was planning to leave, and take you with me. Seems I waited too long.”

“But we did leave!” Danny exclaimed. “You took me with you!”

“More like you took me with you.” Jason stated with a small chuckle. “First thing is figure out where we are.” The asphalt beneath them meant they at least weren’t anywhere near the league compound, and the corn fields narrowed the climate down. “Think we should just pick a direction and walk. We’ll have to find new clothes too.”

Danny nodded and moved to stand. Jason eyed him warily, looking for any signs of instability.

“You feeling okay? Nothing hurts?” Jason asked, carefully keeping any anxiety out of his tone.

“Yeah I feel great!” Danny exclaimed. “That was scary but I’m better now!”

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Jason took him at his word, at least for now. He’d keep an eye on him to make sure he was truly healed, but they’d have to make the best of the situation.

The two walked north, “Towards Polaris!” Danny informed him, entertaining himself by naming off stars and constellations, telling Jason the stories that come along with them.

After a few hours worth of walking, Jason was beat and Danny was starting to flag.

“Think we should take a break for a bit?” Jason asked the tired child.

“I can keep going!” Danny said “I’m strong!”

“I know you are kid, but we should probably get some rest anyways. don’t wanna be too tired to make a plan once we come across a town or something.” Jason didn’t want to poke at too fresh wounds, so he added, “I’m getting pretty tired.”

“Oh,” said Danny, “We’ll if you’re tired I guess we can stop!”

Jason nodded gratefully, “Thanks kid.” As they moved over into the empty field to their right. They had yet to see a car, but the road signs and mile markers said they were in Illinois, near Chicago.

“We’re getting close to a city, we’ll be able to make a better plan once we’re there.” Jason already had a couple options in mind, but he’d talk to Danny about them after some sleep. He knew that if he wanted to follow through on his plans in Gotham, he couldn’t have a kid hanging off of him. Plus Danny would be easier to find if they stayed together. Better to leave him somewhere to start over, to be a normal kid. But he wasn’t sure how Danny would take that idea.

Danny nodded sleepily as they laid down in the grass. “What city?” His small voice asked?

“Chicago,” Jason replied, “it’s a city in the United States, in Illinois.”

“Huh, we’re pretty far away from home.” Danny’s lip trembled again.

‘This poor kid.’ Jason thought. ‘He’s been through so much in such a short time.’ Out loud he said, “Yup really far, but that means you’re really safe.” He wasn’t sure what to add, as he didn’t want to make promises Danny knew he couldn’t keep. Jason opened his mouth to keep going, but noticed that Danny’s eyes had closed. Kid was out.

“Even if I’m not with you,” Jason whispered as he too laid back, “I promise I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

Protective Instincts

Hmmmmmmmmm

Idea.

So we all mostly headcanon that Jason was around tiny Damian when in the League right? And if we do demon!twins or siblings Danny they meet too?

Well what if, now hear me out, what if while taking care of them Jason notices early on how Danyal, or as he likes to be called Danny, doesn't seem to have the heart to be an assassin compared to Damian. And even under the pits influence and the LOA teachings, Jason's protective instincts of protecting kids is still strong. And notices how... lack the protection around Danny is compared to Damian, the true heir.

What if, when Jason leaves the League to start his revenge against Bruce, he fakes Danny's death by killing off the little 'guards' he did have and takes the kid with him.

But as he goes to Gotham Jason has to decide.

Drop the kid off in a good family, give him a new identity and keep him hidden or keep the kid and raise them?

#getting into ittttt #there’ll probably be a time skip fyi #poor Danny he’s got some major shit to work through #sorry each update is so short #helps too keep me motivated if I can post each little bit lol #dp x dc #dpxdc #dp x dc crossover

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hellspawnmotel · 3 days ago

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do you have any personal thoughts on what exactly is it that drives the player to do a snowgrave route? or do you think we're not supposed to know yet..? like you know how in undertale the genocide route is mostly about curiosity and using the player's completionist mentality agaisnt them, i feel like snowgrave has something to do with the prophecy but we cant know for sure yet, do you think snowgrave would be more about playing with people's feelings or something like that ? sorta like, "I like noelle so i'll spend more time with her and make her strong" "i dont like berdly so i'll play the route where he dies" or maybe literally just "I love when stories make me feel awful so that's why i'll play the Mean route" LMAO since i think thats common in ppl who like to discuss the route

it’s interesting, I think it’s something we don’t really have enough information to know yet. I think it depends on the nature of the soul and how it got to this world, what put it here and why. I think…. the holiday family is kind of the center of everything, and noelle is the only member of it who’s like, available? rudy’s in the hospital and carol & dess are already fully involved, but noelle was still innocent and ignorant, and healthy. so to that end I don’t think it’s necessarily about who noelle is as a person, it’s because she has access to this power. the ability to break the game.

the thing that keeps getting brought up in chapter 3 is “freedom”. you want to play your own way and do whatever you want. youre enjoying the youthful days. it’s fun. I think the mechanics of the weird route are in direct conversation with the geno route and how people have reacted and gotten used to it over the years, and turned it from like a dark secret to half the conversation around undertale. so it’s asking “how far are you willing to go in order to achieve that same ‘freedom?’ we already know you’re willing to kill all these sweet and fun characters, you want that same thing again, but what if the only avenue to get there was through the slow psychological destruction of an innocent girl? would you be willing to do these terrible things to her? would you be willing to select just the right action to hurt her over and over? would you be willing to sit and watch the consequences of what you’ve done?”

I mean. that’s one angle anyway. I also subscribe to the idea of the weird route as “power-leveling” your favorite character, or just wanting to make the “weak girl” into something strong and threatening, in defiance of all those games that wouldn’t let you do just that. youre helping her of course. and girls like her dont usually get to become the strongest. you want to see it just once.

I think the former is much more likely to be the overall “point” of the weird route, but maybe the latter is like, the internal justification the player/soul gives themselves within the narrative. and of course in real life every actual person playing is going to feel differently and have different reasons. but again, we really don’t have enough information to make that kind of call. it could just as easily be something that will become clear only when we get much deeper in.

#asks #analysis #in other circumstances i would also suggest the idea of wanting to make the 'useless girl' into something well. useful #but everyone likes noelle. i dont think anyone thinks shes annoying or pointless in the way they treat other female characters #and besides when peope think like that they usually just want to get rid of the 'dead weight' and use them as little as possible #so i dont think its that.

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woradat · 23 hours ago

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just wonder.. will you write for rodimus? 🥺 I mean, that jump-to-your-soul pic of him have to mean something right??

also do you take any req?

Done with your ex

SUMMARY – just an ego through the roof captain and his ex on the same ship, long trip together

PAIRING – rodimus x reader

NOTE – you take a hint huh. What are you, a government spy? I'm already working on him for a while now. And yes, I do a requests. You can see the rules/details in the pinned post. I just added+edit about few day ago

The loading ramp of the Lost Light hissed open like the universe itself was trying to be dramatic

Rodimus barely glanced up. He was in the middle of arguing with Swerve about whether installing retractable flame decals on the hull would count as 'atmospheric augmentation" or just "unnecessary and definitely going to kill us"

Then he saw movement out of the corner of his optic—and everything in his CPU short-circuited

There you were

Striding up the ramp like you owned it. Like you hadn’t ghosted out of his life with nothing but a pointed sentence and that half-smile that always meant checkmate. Like you hadn’t once told him—flatly, and with clinical precision—that loving him felt like "trying to put a fire out with gasoline"

And dammit if you didn’t look exactly the same. Polished. Poised. Primed for war and polite company. Elegant as ever. Calm as a sunset before a Category Five energon storm

You weren’t flash, never were—but you had that aura. That smooth, coiled presence like a vibroblade sheathed in silk. Oh the look—that faint, unreadable smile like you knew something he didn’t and were gracious enough to let him flounder in ignorance. That same neutral expression you used when pretending not to judge the tactical decisions of people clearly beneath your IQ range. That same stride that said “I’ve already calculated the probability of this going sideways and I brought snacks"

Rodimus froze, his spark dropped so hard it might’ve left a dent in his internals ‘No. Nope. Absolutely not!’

It couldn’t be you

Except, of course, it was. Because the universe loved poetic suffering and apparently it was his turn to monologue through one. He stared. You stared back. Unbothered. Professional. Radiating the exact same emotional energy as someone walking past their ex at a high-society gala—with better posture and zero regrets

Rodimus blinked so hard his optic lens recalibrates “What— what are you doing here?”

You didn’t even flinch. Just turned to him with a look that was one part serene and two parts smug, tilted your helm slightly. That little angle that always meant “I heard that. I’m just choosing violence later” Your voice, when it came, was like silk over sharpened steel

“Captain. How lovely to see you again”

“You’ve got to be—this is—no. Nope. Absolutely not”

Ultra Magnus appeared like a summoned ghost behind you, arms crossed, expression stiffer than a rusted gear “As I explained in my three prior reports, they’ve been appointed to the crew as strategic analyst”

Rodimus blinked "Three reports?"

“High-level pattern recognition. Crisis forecasting, multi-factional battle simulations, inter-faction negotiation” Magnus went on, tone flatter than the C.I.C. floor “They’ve been correct approximately 91.3% of the time. Statistically, that qualifies them as one of the best. They will be a valuable addition”

You gave a modest nod. Like someone who totally didn’t memorize those numbers already “Besides” you added smoothly

“I’m here for work. Nothing more. You can unclench now, Captain”

Rodimus looked like someone had just served him a steaming mug of his own poor life choices “Right. Work. Of course. Just work. Nothing else weird about this at all. Nope. Totally chill"

You stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that your electromagnetic field skimmed his. Cool, clean, unreadable. Like an encrypted data packet wrapped in charm and sarcasm

“You always did have trouble being chill” you murmured “Still trying to solve everything by flying straight into it?”

“But don’t worry, captain. I’m not here to relive the past”

Rodimus sputtered. Behind him, Swerve audibly choked on a laugh “Oh, Primus, it is the ex. The one who called him ‘reckless with delusions of grandeur' I thought that was a metaphor”

You didn’t dignify that with a response. Just tilted your helm, optics flicked to him—neutral. But your smirk said “I win”

And with that, you turned and start walking down the hall—measured, composed, calculating—like a battlefield was unfolding beneath your pedes and you’d already chosen where all the pieces would fall – Rodimus stared after you like he’d just watched his worst mistake reappear in haute couture and get a standing ovation, as if to twist the energon dagger in his spark just a little further, you said—without turning back

“And for the record… I liked you better before you started trying to be respectable

Rodimus stood frozen, expression somewhere between awe, horror, and very mild arousal

“This is fine” he said out loud “This is great.. This is the best worst day I’ve ever had”

“Wanna talk about it?” Swerve offered

“Wanna be spaced through an airlock?”

“You’ve been out here for twenty minutes” Drift said, suddenly beside him. Rodimus jumped like he’d been caught digging through a black ops file “I’m not spying..!” “Sure” Drift glanced pointedly at the window “Just… monitoring morale with your face pressed against the glass?” Rodimus shoved a blank datapad into his hands "I’m checking their reassignment logs! That’s normal. Curiosity is normal” "You could just ask” “I can’t just ask! What if they think I still care?” “Rodimus, you’re literally stalking them through a wall" Rodimus made a noise somewhere between static and a dying turbo-ratchet “Okay, fine. Then you ask”

“Me?” “Yeah. You’ve got that wise monk aura. People think your invasive questions are… philosophical" Drift gave him a look so dry it might’ve been illegal in five star systems “If they throw something at me” he said, turning to leave “I’m blaming you”

Rodimus was not asking

He was simply conducting a targeted data acquisition exercise. Command-level intel. Tactical morale assessment. Strategic background audit on one of his newest officers. Perfectly normal captain things. Not weird. Not personal. Absolutely not fueled by the gnawing ache of unresolved emotional abandonment

“So” he began, too casually, sidling up to the corner of Swerve’s bar where Drift was trying to enjoy a moment of monk-like silence and absolutely not entertain any of Rodimus’s mid-spark crises “hypothetically—if someone used to date someone, and that someone got assigned to their ship without, say, any warning whatsoever, that would be… strange, right?”

“Strange. Uncomfortable. Emotionally volatile” Drift didn’t even look up from his cup “So yes. Very you”

Rodimus scoffed. Loudly. Overcompensating “This isn’t about me”

“Of course not” Drift said blandly “We’re speaking in totally neutral hypotheticals about your insanely sharp, tactically brilliant, emotionally impenetrable ex who now occupies a front-row seat in every strategy meeting like an elegantly silent death sentence”

Rodimus’s scowl could have curdled energon “They’re not that elegant”

“They once ended a meeting by folding a datachip in half. With one hand. While smiling”

Rodimus muttered something under his breath about “intimidation tactics” and “showoffs”. Drift, clearly bored of the deflection game, pulled up a datapad with a flick of the wrist—graceful, like a librarian about to ruin your life “Alright. Let’s see what your not at all relevant ex has been up to post-breakup…”

Rodimus leaned in. But not like he cared. More like he was... intellectually engaged. Professionally intrigued. Possibly a little nauseous

“They worked under Prowl"

“PROWL?! You mean—rules incarnate? Mister ‘Let’s Commit War Crimes But Quietly’ !?”

“The one and only” Drift confirmed smoothly “High-level strategy corps. Joint command ops. Dozens of successful missions. Commendations for tactical elegance, command precision—”

“Okay, okay, you can stop reading their résumé, this isn’t a talent show” Rodimus began to pace, movements sharp and erratic like a hovercraft trying to salsa “They worked with me and said I was reckless, but then they go partner up with Prowl? That sentient flowchart? Seriously?”

Drift was already sipping again “Maybe they like the quiet, measured type now. The kind who doesn’t detonate their own escape pod just to spell ‘hello’ in midair”

“That happened one time”

“And it was somehow still in the mission report”

Rodimus groaned into his hands. He imagined you and Prowl standing next to each other, talking shop, making flawless tactical adjustments while not even blinking at each other — It was horrible. It was clinical. It was worse than anything he could’ve imagined

“What else?” he asked, in the voice of someone about to regret every answer

Drift’s optics flicked “They turned down a permanent command position. Said they wanted a ‘change of pace' ”

“—So… they chose this ship. My ship”

“Seems that way”

“Knowing I was the captain”

“Still seems that way”

Rodimus blinked. Then frowned. Then blinked again, slower. Like it would change the data “So what you’re telling me is: either they’ve secretly forgiven me and came to rekindle the flame—”

“Highly unlikely”

“—or they came here to watch me fail up close, with popcorn in hand and a tactical spreadsheet”

“That one sounds more plausible”

Rodimus placed both hands dramatically on the bartop and huffed. Dramatically. Theatrically. The only way he could before he declared, straightening up “I’m fine.. I’m a professional. This is my ship. I am not threatened by my ex working with a glorified calculator"

...

“…Do you think they ever kissed?”

“Please go to therapy”

—

The outpost was still burning behind you

Fires licked at twisted steel frames and shattered windowpanes, the heat rippling off slagged ground like a second atmosphere. The smoke stung your optics, even with the filters on, but you didn’t blink. Hot Rod stood a few paces away, armor scorched and mouth set in that stubborn line that always came right before he said something reckless. You didn’t give him the chance

“What were you thinking?” Your voice was level. Too level. The kind of calm that meant someone was furious. Hot Rod flinched. Not visibly—but you knew the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the flicker in his EM field when he was caught “I saved them”

He said “I had to”

“You disobeyed a coordinated strategy, blew through our cover, and almost got yourself killed—again”

He looked at you now. Really looked. Heat still clung to him like a second skin, optics burning, frame vibrating with leftover adrenaline. And somewhere underneath all that fire was a flicker of… confusion. As if he still didn’t understand why you weren’t proud of him

“But it worked”

“That’s not the point”

You turned to face him fully, field tightening, anger settling into your shoulders like weight “You’re not a one-mech army, Hot Rod. You’re not invincible. You can’t keep throwing yourself into every explosion and expecting everyone else to clean up after you”

He stepped forward, hands half-raised “I did it to protect other”

“No. You did it because you wanted to be seen protecting other”

There it was. The silence after a sharp cut. His optics widened, and for a moment you saw it, that bare, wounded flicker of a spark hit too close to the truth. But he covered it with bravado—because that’s what he did. That’s what he always did “So that’s it? You think I’m just some attention seeking show off?”

“I think you’re brave. I think you’re passionate. I think you’ll make a great hero one day–”

“..But I also think you’ll never learn how to lead, if you can’t learn how to listen” That hit deeper than the last shot he’d taken in the field

He turned away, jaw locked, fists clenched “So what, then?” he said, voice tight

“You’re walking away? Just like that?”

You hesitated—but only for a moment “I don’t want to. But I can’t spend my life patching up the aftermath of every decision you make on impulse –You always dive first and ask questions later. And I.. I want to build something that lasts. Not chase something that burns” you admitted softly

The silence between you was long and cruel —without another word—you stepped back. Hot Rod didn’t stop you. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what hurt the most

After the breakup with Hot Rod, you took a high-ranking strategic position under Prowl—not romantically, but deeply professionally and intellectually tense

Prowl respected your mindset but hated your moral flexibility and tendency to “go rogue if the math is prettier that way” You – in turn, found Prowl’s rigid morality fascinating and enjoyed poking holes in his logic — Their relationship was legendary among staff—half strategy meetings, half philosophy battles. You both made an unstoppable duo on paper. But behind closed doors?

“That is not regulation protocol”

“Neither is surviving half the war. I’ll take my odds”

Eventually, you left when the war ended, saying something like: “If I stay any longer, I’ll either become you or throw you out an airlock. Neither’s ideal”

The medbay lights flickered once before steadying again. Outside, the sky over the outpost glowed red with the aftermath of an explosion. You stood at the outside, arms crossed, helm tilted just enough to convey “I’m not mad, but I’m seconds away from strangling you with my own field”

The door hissed open with a battered flair, and there he was—Hot Rod in all his half-scorched, grinning, chaos-stained glory. One arm was covered in carbon scoring. His left shoulder was leaking a thin trickle of energon. There was what looked like a thruster casing lodged in his hip plate

And he was still smiling. Of course he was

“You should’ve seen it” Hot Rod said, voice bouncing with adrenaline “I looped around the ridge, came in low—boom! Took out the flank in one go. Didn’t even need backup”

You didn’t look up from your datapad “You told me you’d follow the plan”

“Technically, I did. For the first ten seconds”

“And after that?”

“...It got boring?”

You set the datapad down. Slowly

Hot Rod’s grin twitched “It worked, didn’t it?” he said, stepping closer “Mission success. I’m standing. The ridge is rubble. Everyone’s cheering”

“You nearly didn’t come back”

You stared at him—really stared. All that molten gold, still burning in his optics. His armor still warm from the blast. That stupid, crooked grin he wore like a shield

“You know I hate improvising. Not because it’s reckless. But because it’s you. You gamble like your life isn’t worth anything”

“Hey, come on—”

“Rod”

That landed. His grin faltered for real now

“I’m serious. Every time you run off-script, it’s like you’re testing fate. And I’m the one stuck writing the damage report” You stepped closer, thumb brushing a burn mark near his jaw. The scorch made your spark ache a little. He leaned into your touch without thinking. Like a reflex. Like your hand on his face was the only real thing in the place

“One of these days” you murmured “you’ll pull that stunt and I won’t be there to drag your aft out”

“That’s not true” he said softly

“No?”

“You’d come back for me. Always”

You wanted to argue. But you couldn’t. Not really. Because even now—even furious, even worn out—you were here. And when he leaned forward to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth his head dipped low down to your jaw, kissing soft like apology, you let him. His hands found your waist. Familiar. Easy. A rhythm you both still remembered

“You love it when I push my luck” he said into your helm

“I love you, Roddy. That doesn’t mean I love watching you destroy yourself”

That hit harder than a mine to the chest. He didn’t pull away. Just held you tighter. You sighed, pressing your faceplate against his shoulder. He still smelled faintly like ozone and energon. Still radiated that wild, sun-hot energy that made you both love and fear him

“Next time” you said into the space between you “you disobey a field order, I’m duct-taping you to Ultra Magnus”

“...Kinky”

You laughed. Just a little. Couldn’t help it “Don’t make me regret loving you”

There was a long silence. No snappy comeback. No flirt. Just a stillness that made your spark ache. His arms tightened around you and for one fleeting, fragile moment—you let yourself believe this would last

—

You are alone in the quiet of the hallway. Staring at the window, the stars wheeling slowly past beyond the glass. It wasn't dramatic solitude—you weren't hiding. Just… decompressing. That was all. Your optics drifted to your own reflection—faint, transparent, caught in the black

And for some damn reason, his voice echoed there instead

“You'd come back for me. Always"

Primus

You let your head fall back with a soft thunk against the reinforced wall. He wasn't wrong

You had come back. Not for him—never that, never openly. But… well. You hadn't exactly gone out of your way to avoid the Lost Light, either. And when Magnus had offered the post? You could've said no. You didn't and now here you were. Sharing meetings. Sharing air. Sharing old ghosts

Your fingers tapped against your datapad in a slow, guilty rhythm

“Stupid charming idiot with fire in his optics and no sense of self-preservation” you muttered under your breath. You knew that smile he gave you in the last meeting. Knew it like a habit you never quite kicked and the worst part? That stupid little ember in your spark still glowed when he looked your way

“Okay. Fine. He was right” You let out a small, strangled sound through your vents

Not quite a groan. Not quite a sigh. Just the noise of someone on the edge of "Why am I like this?" and "I could still jump out the airlock and make it look like strategy” You pressed your head lightly against the cool surface of the wall. Just for a second. Just enough to feel the metal and imagine it was hitting you back. No matter how reckless he was. No matter how much he grinned like the universe owed him forgiveness. No matter how much it still ached when you looked at him and remembered the way things used to be. You stood upright again with a snap of your shoulders and a squint of righteous self-annoyance

“Next time if he opens that mouth" you mumbled “I’m going to verbally gut him. Real clean. Sharp. Professional. Something with bite, doubling the sarcasm. Go for the ego. Aim for the fins. That’ll shut him up" You narrowed your optics at your reflection—your own face looking smug in the glass “He gets one more pass. After that, I’m escalating. He’s going to wish I never came back”

“Stars, I hope he does that thing with his optics again though…” and maybe—maybe—if you kept throwing enough barbs, you could stop remembering how it felt when he held you like that and made you believe the fire wouldn’t burn

You buried your face in your hand

“..I need therapy"

#transformers idw #transformers #transformers x y/n #transformers x reader #transformers x cybertronian reader #hot rod x reader #rodimus x reader #reader insert #cybertronian reader

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bananasplit133 · 3 days ago

Text

Dial T for Tenna (PART 5)

'Ant' Tenna/Reader

PART 1 -- AO3

Summary: After a calmer broadcast, Tenna is pulled into a surprise meeting with the higher-ups. Tension rises, but the reader helps him stay grounded. Despite everything, they choose to stay by his side through the rest of the day.

----

The next day carried the weight of something unspoken—like the echo after a broadcast that had ended too abruptly. The studio didn't feel loud, exactly, but it wasn’t quiet either. There was a tension in the air that no amount of lighting gels or laugh tracks could dispel. The incident from yesterday—the contestant, the knife, the panic—had slipped into every crack between cables and clipboards. No one said anything outright, of course. They were professionals. But there was a new tightness in the way stagehands moved, how producers huddled behind headsets a little longer than necessary. Every time someone glanced toward the main hallway or the editing bay, it was like they were bracing for a surge of static that never came.

And then, Tenna arrived.

He didn’t enter with a bang. No signature catchphrase. No arms thrown wide, demanding attention like a spotlight come to life. Just the soft tap of his shoes on tile, the hum of his frame as he walked through the lobby like someone who had simply never left. His screen was calm—still glowing white, not flickering or glitching, no sharp color shifts or sound distortions. Just… steady. Even his antennae, usually twitching with some unreadable broadcast tension, were unusually still, rising in slow, measured angles instead of jittering through thoughts he couldn’t say out loud. And his mouth—tight-lipped, flat—didn’t try to form a smirk or a grimace. No theatrics. No false charm. Just a thin line of quiet resolve.

You watched him from the break room doorway as he passed by, barely registering the crew around him. He moved like a weathered professional might walk through a set after a bomb scare—no panic, no collapse, just checking the walls to see what was still standing. When he saw you, he didn’t stop, but his head turned slightly in your direction. A twitch of his antennae. A subtle parting of his lips. Not quite a smile—more like an acknowledgment. The broadcast version of, “You okay?” without ever asking it out loud.

He didn’t ask how you were. And you didn’t ask him either.

That was the strange thing about yesterday’s chaos—it hadn’t broken something between you. If anything, it clarified it. You weren’t just background anymore. Not just the network’s last-ditch “liaison” plastered into place to keep him from melting down on air. He’d looked at you yesterday like you weren’t part of the noise. Like you were the one piece of signal he could tune into when everything else was screaming.

Tenna moved through the building like a presence now, not just a performance. People didn’t flinch when he walked by—not because the fear was gone, but because he wasn’t wearing the same razor-edged energy anymore. He wasn’t performing for them. Not today. He walked into the control room before anyone else could, leaned over the shoulder of a technician still finalizing transitions for the day’s recording, and quietly pointed at a glitch in the lower-third overlay. His antennae dipped as he murmured something under his breath—some note about timing, or color, or spacing. The tech nodded, fixed it, and Tenna stepped back without fanfare.

No booming critique. No tantrum. No static pulse of fury.

Just... work.

Later, in the side hall near the loading bay, you found him again. He was leaned up against a metal case full of cables, coat slightly wrinkled, one antenna bent where it had snagged on a scaffolding pipe earlier. You caught him mid-thought, staring off into some corner of the ceiling like there was an old episode of himself rerunning up there that only he could see. You approached slowly—no clipboard this time, no notes, no rehearsed lines. Just you. Just him.

“You alright?” you asked softly, the air between you still thick with yesterday’s memory.

His mouth pulled into a lopsided shape—something close to a grimace, but lacking any real bite. “You think if I say yes, the sponsors’ll start sending fruit baskets again?”

You gave a dry laugh, stepping beside him. “Depends. You want apples or apologies?”

Tenna snorted, a sharp burst of static through his chest that fizzled just as quickly. “I’ll pass on both. Apples rot, and apologies come with paperwork.” He tilted his head slightly, antennae flicking to one side like a shrug he hadn’t fully committed to. “Not like any of them meant for her to go off like that. They just wanted a wildcard. Something unstable. Something marketable.”

You didn’t correct him. He wasn’t wrong.

“She didn’t belong on that stage,” you said. “You knew it before anyone.”

“I didn’t know,” he muttered, voice low and mechanical, “I felt it. The timing was off. The pacing. The rhythm of the segment just... cracked.” His mouth pressed into a deeper frown. “Used to be, I could fix anything. Tanked jokes, busted lights, even dead crowds. All it took was volume. Flash. I’d pump the feed so full of noise they wouldn’t even remember the glitch. But yesterday...”

He didn’t finish.

You didn’t push.

The silence that followed was long and stretched, but it didn’t feel empty. It just sat with you both, like something earned. Tenna’s antennae drooped slightly—not with exhaustion, exactly, but like someone powering down just enough to feel the air around them. You watched his screen quietly, waiting for the static that usually crawled at the edges to return. It didn’t.

Eventually, he turned his head toward you, mouth parting like he had to chew on the thought before letting it out. “You remember what she said? That she didn’t sign up for this?” His shoulders flexed slightly. “Neither did I.”

You looked at him then—really looked. Not as a star, not as the network’s unbreakable showman, not as the suit who screamed catchphrases into the void because it was safer than silence. Just Tenna. Broadcast burnout in a humanoid frame. Not crying for help. Not begging for pity. Just… there.

“I know,” you said softly. “But you stayed anyway.”

He stared forward, then nodded once—mouth twitching downward in what might’ve been the beginning of a real, weary smile. His antennae perked slightly, not all the way up, just enough to register the motion. A signal that said I heard you.

The crew started buzzing again down the hall. Lights warming up. Producers barking over comms. Another episode to prep. Another thirty minutes of structured chaos and camera-ready reactions to build. The world was waking up again. But for now—for this one moment—it was just the two of you tucked between shadows and silence.

“You coming to stage?” he asked finally.

“I’ll be there.”

“...Don’t let them throw another knife girl at me.” he muttered, antennae dipping in the closest thing to a comedic wince.

You gave him a crooked grin. “No promises.”

And with that, he straightened his coat, cracked his knuckles, and rolled his shoulders like he was rebooting a long-lost file from deep in his system. His mouth curled—not quite into a grin, but something that suggested he still knew how to wear one if the moment called for it.

“Alright then,” he murmured, voice steady but still tinged with something tender. “Let’s give them a show.”

Then he turned and walked back toward the stage, his antennae bouncing slightly with each step—lighter now. Less like a man trying to outrun collapse, and more like someone beginning to trust the silence wouldn’t swallow him whole.

—

The show went off without a hitch.

No fog machines breaking down mid-round. No stagehands tripping over wires. No rogue contestants with twitching hands and knives tucked into jacket linings. Tenna was sharp, electric in all the right ways, never overloading. His timing was crisp, his jokes hit their beats, and the audience—blessedly—stayed on their side of the stage. The buzz in the control room leaned toward cautious optimism, like everyone had been holding their breath for forty-five minutes and now weren’t quite sure how to let it out.

You watched him carefully from the wings the entire time. He didn’t know you were tracking his every move—not directly—but you could feel it in how your eyes wouldn’t leave his screen. You weren’t watching the host. You were watching the tilt of his mouth when a segment didn’t land quite right, the brief flex of his shoulders when the audience clapped too late, the flicker across his antennae whenever someone called a cue half a beat early. He didn’t falter. Not once. But the little signs were there, if you knew what to look for. And you did.

Then came the wrap. The sign-off. The "Thanks for tuning in!" delivered with just enough static to sound spontaneous, but clean enough for broadcast. The music swelled. The lights faded.

And Tenna… exhaled.

You caught the way his shoulders dipped—not in defeat, but in release. His mouth slackened slightly, no longer pinched with performance. The glint of white on his screen dimmed to a gentler glow. Not tired, not smug. Just done. It was the kind of ending that usually bought you at least fifteen minutes of peace before someone barged in yelling about numbers.

But then came the voice.

"Mr. Tenna, please report to Conference Room 1-A. Immediately."

It blared in from the overhead speaker with all the warmth of a dial tone. Your stomach twisted. The tone of that announcement was never good. Not neutral. Not casual. Immediate was code for bad. And calling him in right after the show? That was blood in the water.

Tenna didn’t speak. His antennae twitched once, sharply. His mouth pressed into a tight, unreadable shape. Still, he didn’t argue. He just stepped offstage with the same quiet grace he’d worn all day, like someone walking into a spotlight they didn’t ask for.

You moved before he could say anything.

They’re calling him in alone? After that week? After what happened? That’s not just a red flag, that’s a broadcast emergency test pattern. You caught up to him halfway down the hallway, shoes clicking against tile, clipboard forgotten somewhere on a prop cart behind you. He didn’t look at you, but when you fell in beside him, his hand brushed yours in a tiny motion. Not a grip. Not an ask. Just… a reminder that you were there.

“I’m coming with you,” you said softly, more a statement than an offer.

He didn’t argue. Just gave a tiny, affirming twitch of his antennae. His mouth was set straight again, expression unreadable—but you knew better. That was his defensive mode. Screen bright, posture tight, antennae alert. Like a live wire trying not to short.

Conference Room 1-A. Of course it was that one.

That room still held the ghost of every shouted memo and every impersonal “We love you, but…” ever aimed his way. You’d been in there with him during that first meeting. The one with the paper rattling, the light flickering, the static roaring behind his words like a barely leashed storm. You knew exactly how quickly this place could dig its claws into his frame and twist.

He reached for the door handle like it might shock him.

Announcing you that a meeting is about to take place, your thoughts quipped bitterly. Hmm. You should go with him. The higher-ups calling a meeting out of nowhere might bring trouble. And you were right. The moment you stepped inside, the air changed.

The lights in the conference room were always too bright. The walls sterile white, like a blank screen trying to blind you. The suits were already seated in their tidy little rows around the glass table, tablets and styluses at the ready like they were prepping to dissect someone instead of talk. Kairos was already standing, arms crossed tightly, her nametag catching the light in that frustrating, self-righteous way. She didn’t smile. She didn’t welcome him.

She jumped straight into it.

“Tenna. Sit down.”

His mouth curled slightly—not into a smile. It was the kind of twist his lips made when something was being forced out of him. Restraint. Disgust. Tired showbiz tolerance. His antennae twitched again, more sharply this time, but he obeyed. You sat beside him, hand near his on the table but not touching.

Kairos didn’t waste a second.

“Do you want to tell us,” she said, voice dangerously calm, “how that girl—a completely unverified, unscheduled individual—ended up on your stage with a weapon?”

Tenna’s screen didn’t flash. Not yet. His mouth stayed in that tight line. But his antennae tilted back, defensive.

“I didn’t bring her on,” he said, voice flat.

“She was introduced as a contestant on your segment.”

“I wasn’t given a choice,” he snapped back, and the sharpness of it made his antennae flick forward again. “They slotted her in last minute. I didn’t even get a name until I was already live.”

The other suits muttered, tapped their screens like they were scrolling for excuses. Kairos leaned forward slightly.

“You lost control,” she said. “You were supposed to maintain the broadcast. Instead, we had an emergency feed cut halfway through a round. Sponsors are calling. PR is—”

“I handled it,” Tenna said. A bite in his voice now. “No one got hurt.”

“But it was close,” she snapped, louder now. “And if the footage leaks? We’ve got optics to consider. Damage control. Headlines. People saw your screen glitch, Tenna. You think no one noticed that panic loop in the audio?”

His hand twitched on the table. You noticed it. The same way you noticed his screen beginning to brighten, not with light, but tension. The static wasn’t visible yet, but you could feel it. Building.

Too bright. Too fast. Too many voices talking at him instead of to him.

You looked at him. His mouth was tense. Antennae stiff. The glow behind the glass of his screen was becoming just a little too sharp.

You had to step in.

“I was there,” you said, calmly, clearly. The suits turned. Kairos didn’t, but you knew she was listening. “Mr Tenna did everything he could with a chaotic situation he didn’t create. He got everyone out. He kept it from going to black. That was him. Not you. Him.”

Tenna blinked—figuratively—and you felt the tiniest release of tension at your side. His antennae lowered a notch. His hand flexed once on the table and stayed flat. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t explode either.

You could work with that.

Kairos didn’t flinch at your words. She didn’t scold you for speaking. But the flick of her pen against the table—measured, slow, deliberate—spoke louder than her voice ever could. Her expression remained professionally neutral, but her posture screamed frustration barely caged behind a clipboard and a polished blouse. Across the table, the other suits whispered behind their tablets, muttering about liability and news cycles, ignoring the actual person seated inches from them like he was just another broadcast machine that needed tuning.

And Tenna?

He was slipping.

You could feel it—see it—in every detail they ignored. His screen, still a dull white, had begun to hum. Not loud, not chaotic, but enough to rattle the air near him. The kind of quiet pre-static that came before one of his episodes. His antennae were twitching again, sharper now, not in rhythm with his usual controlled theatrics. One of them ticked down and then jerked upright again, like it couldn’t decide whether to brace for impact or send out a distress signal.

But it was his hands that gave it away.

He dropped them to his knees under the table, fingers curling into the fabric of his pants like they were the only thing keeping him tethered. The grip was tight—too tight. The kind of white-knuckle pressure you knew from watching people try to anchor themselves to reality before something inside them cracked. His mouth tightened, clenched at one corner like he was physically holding something back. Words. Static. Rage. Fear. You couldn’t tell which. Maybe all of it.

The suits kept talking.

Kairos was still reciting PR nightmares like it was a weather report.

And Tenna was unraveling in real time right next to you.

Don’t wait. Your brain barked it before you could overthink it. Don’t let him drop here. Not in this room. Not in front of them. You shifted slightly in your seat, slow enough not to draw attention. The hem of the tablecloth grazed the top of your hand as you reached beneath it—careful, cautious—and found his arm where it rested against his thigh.

His forearm was tense, cables and synthetic tendons pulled taut beneath his coat sleeve. You slid your hand over it gently—steady, warm, grounding. No sudden movement. No demand. Just there. You pressed your palm down just enough for him to feel it.

And then, soft—just for him—you whispered: “Hey… you’re here. With me. Not them.”

There was a beat.

Then another.

Tenna’s mouth twitched—not open, not closed. Just… shifted. Like he was processing the words before his mind could reboot fast enough to shut them out. His antennae flicked, then slowly lowered—not limp, but calmer. Less signal lost. More signal stabilized.

His hand didn’t release the grip on his pant leg.

But it stopped tightening.

The hum in his screen softened—not gone, but muted now, like the volume had been turned down. You didn’t let go of his arm. Not yet. Not until he leaned into your touch just slightly—barely noticeable to anyone not watching for it.

But you were.

And then Kairos spoke again, this time louder, with that tired finality of someone wrapping up an unpleasant job.

“We’ll be monitoring the next few episodes closely. If there’s even a hint of instability on-air—emotional or otherwise—there will be consequences.”

She straightened her clipboard with a snap.

“The meeting is adjourned.”

The sound of chairs scraping against the floor rang too loud in the silence that followed. Styluses tapped off, tablets clicked shut. The suits moved in their usual rehearsed rhythm—brisk, indifferent, unaffected. A few tossed tired glances Tenna’s way, but no one lingered. No one said anything to him. Not even Kairos, who simply pivoted on one heel and strode toward the door with the grace of someone who had never once questioned her authority. Just another day at the network.

But Tenna didn’t move.

He stayed seated, hands still resting on his knees. His mouth had drawn into a thin, brittle line. One antenna sagged halfway down, like the energy had drained right out of it. His screen glowed with a dull white pulse—not dangerous, not angry… just empty. Faint interference ghosted along the edge of it, like the image wouldn’t quite finish rendering. He hadn’t looked at you since you touched his arm, but he hadn’t pulled away either.

You let the quiet stretch.

Let the suits walk out first. Let the echo of their footsteps fade behind the conference room doors.

Only then did you slide your chair a little closer, hand still resting on his sleeve. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. His mouth twitched once—like he was trying to form a sentence and the wires just wouldn’t cooperate. His jaw flexed. His antennae slowly started to rise again, unsure, shaky.

“I didn’t lose it,” he muttered finally, voice rough. The sound of static barely touched the words, but you could hear the strain behind them. “I didn’t break. Not really.”

“No,” you said gently. “You didn’t.”

“I wanted to,” he added, quieter now. “I wanted to yell. Scream. Fry the table and walk out and tell Kairos she can stuff her clipboard through a CRT.” He inhaled, and his shoulders lifted sharply with it. “But I didn’t. I sat here. I let them talk to me like I’m not even—like I’m just some busted set piece they can wheel out and dress up and scream at when the ratings dip.”

You hesitated, then leaned in a little closer. “You’re more than that.”

He turned his head just slightly. Not enough to face you fully. But enough to let you know he was hearing it.

“You held it together,” you said. “That’s not nothing.”

Tenna finally let out a long breath—half-static, half-exhaustion. He peeled one hand off his leg slowly, the fabric of his pants creased where his fingers had clutched so hard you were surprised the stitching hadn’t snapped. He stared at his hand for a second, like he didn’t quite recognize it, then rubbed at the side of his screen where the edge flickered faintly, like a headache trying to bloom behind his face.

“I hate this room,” he muttered.

You glanced around. The cold lighting. The clinical table. The emptiness that always buzzed around the walls even when it was full of people.

“Yeah,” you agreed. “Me too.”

He finally looked at you—his screen flickering to a faint, washed-out tone. No color. Just the suggestion of something trying to stabilize. His mouth softened—not quite a smile, but no longer pulled so tight. His antennae drooped toward you a little, a quiet motion of… trust, maybe. Or just relief.

You stood first, motioning subtly toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

He nodded, slow and deliberate. Didn’t say anything else as he rose, but when he moved to follow you out, his shoulder brushed against yours and didn’t pull away.

You didn’t need to fill the silence between the two of you.

Because this time, he wasn’t filling it either.

He was just walking beside you. Still lit. Still broadcasting.

Still here.

The hallway felt quieter after the conference room.

Not sterile like before—just… soft. Like the building was exhaling after holding its breath too long. No more shouting. No more accusations. Just the hum of distant machinery and the low shuffle of crew breaking down the last of the day’s sets. Your footsteps echoed beside Tenna’s as you made your way toward his dressing room, neither of you rushing, neither of you speaking. You kept a comfortable pace, close enough that your sleeve brushed his every few strides. He didn’t comment on it.

He didn’t pull away, either.

When you reached the door, he unlocked it with the familiar hiss of an old magnetic reader and pushed it open without fanfare. Inside, the space was as you remembered it—overly lit, lived-in, faintly cluttered with cue cards, old wardrobe notes, and a half-drunk cup of black coffee that had gone cold on the shelf. Tenna stepped inside like muscle memory, tossing his coat onto the side couch and immediately heading toward the small desk in the corner.

“Of course,” he muttered, antennae twitching in resignation, “they left me a pile of incident reports to review.”

You blinked. “Already?”

Tenna made a sharp static noise in the back of his throat—a noise you’d come to recognize as the mechanical equivalent of a bitter laugh. “Oh, they waste no time when they think I’ve embarrassed them.” He plucked a small stack of digital printouts from the desk and dropped into the swivel chair like he was collapsing into it. “Look at this. Eight pages. Eight. On how I may have agitated a potentially unstable contestant by existing too loudly on live television.”

He spun the chair halfheartedly, antennae drooping forward in exasperation. His mouth twisted—not angry, not sad. Just exhausted.

You stepped inside and leaned against the wall near the coat rack. “Need help?”

Tenna looked at you, screen flickering faintly.

Then, he shook his head. “Nah.” His voice lowered into something dry, familiar. “I’ve got this. Paper cuts and PR lies. I’m used to it.”

You nodded slowly. You could tell he meant it. He’d shifted back into function mode—not performing, exactly, but retreating into the safe rhythm of things he could control. You watched him reach for a stylus and begin scanning the first document with quick, deliberate flicks of his hand.

After a moment, he spoke again—quieter now. “You don’t have to stick around. Really. It’s boring from here on out.” He didn’t look at you when he said it. His screen glowed soft white again, blank. “You should take the rest of the day off. I know they didn’t assign you to babysit paperwork.”

There it was. The graceful exit. The dismissal that wasn’t unkind, just routine. Something he could say without having to admit anything.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for the doorknob. Didn’t make an excuse.

Instead, you smiled—quietly—and stepped toward the little armchair near the far wall, dragging it just close enough that you could see the top of the report stack but not read any of it. You sat down, folding your hands in your lap. “I don’t mind boring.”

Tenna paused, stylus hovering mid-mark.

His antennae twitched once.

Then again.

His mouth didn’t smile. But it didn’t argue either.

He let out a soft, static-laced sigh, so faint it could’ve been mistaken for the white noise of the room’s old AC vent. “You’re strange,” he said, not unkindly. “Sticking around for the boring parts.”

“Maybe,” you said, watching the way his antennae finally settled, relaxed, no longer sharp with stress. “Or maybe I just know when someone shouldn’t be alone.”

He didn’t reply.

But he didn’t ask you to leave again.

For the next hour, the only sounds in the dressing room were the quiet hum of electronics, the occasional scribble of Tenna’s stylus on paper, and the soft shift of your breathing as you leaned back in the chair. He worked. You watched. You didn’t fill the silence with conversation. You didn’t reach for your phone. You didn’t feel the need to. He didn’t need a speech. Just a presence.

Eventually, he glanced your way—not a full turn, just the tilt of his head, a subtle shift in the direction of his screen. “Still not leaving?”

You met the glow of his screen with a calm look. “Nope.”

Tenna was quiet a long moment.

Then: “Good.”

And with that, he returned to his paperwork, the tension slowly unwinding from his frame with every page he signed, every breath he took.

You stayed until the lights dimmed and the office was quiet enough to hear the soft flick of his antennae with every subtle movement.

Not because you had to.

Because he let you.

Because he wanted you there.

---

THANKS FOR READING!

TAGLIST: @fallendove @theilluminatidragonqueen @sacru-tainted @thefiasco-onyourblock @aroura-yuh

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synity · 5 hours ago

Note

Can you please write an Junhui about reader being insecure in herself

JUST LIKE PEARLS

(Wen Junhui x FemReader)

*Comfort, Fluff, Emotional Angst, Healing, Romance Slice of Life Angst Drama Comfort Fiction Slow Burn Emotional Healing Mental Health Awareness Character-Driven*

Before diving into this story, I want to make something really important clear.

This is a story about feeling insecure, something all of us experience in different ways. But I’ve chosen not to name any specific feature or body type as the source of the reader’s insecurity and that’s on purpose. Why? Because insecurities are deeply personal and vary from person to person. For one person, it might be their weight. For another, their height. For someone else, their skin, their hair texture, their features, their voice, or something entirely different.

If I were to say the reader is insecure about being chubby, someone who’s struggling with being too thin might not feel seen. If I say the reader is insecure about having curly hair, someone who wishes theirs wasn’t straight might feel left out. And that’s not the goal here.

This story is for everybody. No matter what you look like, where you're from, or what you're going through, you are valid. You are worthy of love, care, and stories that reflect your emotions and growth. I want my page to be a safe space for anyone who’s ever felt “not enough,” because you are. You really are.

So as you read this, fill in the blanks with your own experiences. Let this be your mirror. Let the words be meant for you, exactly as you are.

Now, let’s begin.

Junhui was always easy to talk to.

It was one of the things you loved most about him the way his voice curled around words like warmth, how he listened without interrupting, how he never made your silences feel awkward. He talked about everything: the way the sunlight hit the buildings during his morning walk, the way his bubble tea was always too sweet but he drank it anyway, the dreams he had about flying, and the random facts he read online about how penguins fall in love.

You talked too, of course. You told him about your day, your thoughts, your childhood stories, and your favorite songs. You laughed together until your ribs ached, argued about which movies deserved Oscars, and shared playlists like secrets.

But you never talked about that.

You were good at hiding it. Hiding yourself. The parts of you you didn’t want him or anyone to see.

When he came over, you always wore oversized sweaters, long sleeves, pants even in summer. You angled your face just right when the camera was on. You laughed off compliments like they were jokes. You always offered to take the photo instead of being in it. You changed behind locked doors. You sat with your arms crossed or your legs pulled in tight.

And he never said anything. Not because he didn’t care but because he didn’t know.

Until, slowly, the little things started to add up.

One evening, the two of you were lying on your bed, talking about everything and nothing. He was stretched out like a cat, flipping through a manga, while you sat with your back to the wall, your hoodie pulled low over your hands, your body carefully folded into itself.

“Do you ever get tired of talking to me?” you asked, the question coming out lighter than it felt.

Junhui looked up immediately. “What? No, never. Why?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I just… feel like I say the same stuff all the time. Like I’m boring.”

He frowned, setting the book aside. “You’re never boring. Not to me.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

A few nights later, it was movie night. Junhui had brought snacks, a blanket, and the same cozy energy he always did. You were curled beside him, knees tucked under you, arms folded tight again. At some point, he leaned his head on your shoulder, and you tensed—just for a second but he noticed.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

“Yeah,” you answered quickly. “Just cold.”

You weren’t. But he didn’t push.

Then came the night everything cracked open.

You were getting ready for bed, brushing your teeth while Junhui sat on the edge of the bed in your room, scrolling through his phone. You changed in the bathroom, as always, emerging with layers of fabric even though the summer heat clung to the walls. You avoided the mirror, your reflection, his eyes.

And Junhui, quiet but thoughtful, finally said something.

“Why don’t you ever let me see you?”

You paused. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t mean like... in a weird way. I just mean… you. The way you hide. From me. From yourself. From the camera. The mirror. The compliments. I’ve been noticing it more lately.”

Your throat tightened. You opened your mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

Junhui stood, slowly, like approaching a frightened bird. “You don’t have to tell me if it’s too much. I just… I don’t want you to think you have to hide with me. Or from me.”

Your arms wrapped around yourself instinctively, eyes fixed on the ground.

“I don’t want you to see me,” you whispered.

Junhui’s heart broke a little at that.

“But I want to,” he said softly. “Not because I need to check anything. Not because I’m trying to fix you. Just… I want to know the parts of you that you’ve been taught to hide. The ones that hurt. The ones you’re scared of. I want to love you, not just the version you think I’ll accept.”

You looked up at him, lip trembling. “What if you see and you don’t like what you find?”

He stepped closer. “Then I’ll look again. Until you start to see what I see.”

Your eyes filled with tears.

“I’m so tired, Jun,” you admitted. “Of pretending I’m okay. Of always adjusting my sleeves, my angles, my clothes. Of avoiding reflections and dodging compliments and smiling like it doesn’t hurt.”

Junhui gently wrapped his arms around you, resting his forehead against yours.

“Then stop pretending,” he said. “With me, you don’t have to.”

And in that embrace, the walls you built so carefully began to fall quietly, piece by piece.

You didn’t feel fixed. But you felt seen. And maybe for now, that was enough.

Maybe healing didn’t start with perfection. Maybe it started with being held when you couldn’t hold yourself.

"No matter what you’re hiding, or how long you’ve carried it you deserve to be loved without conditions. You are not a burden. You are not too much. You don’t have to shrink yourself to be accepted." he kisssed your forehead

That night, you didn’t say much more. You just stood in his arms, letting yourself be held like it was the first time you were allowed to take up space.

Junhui didn’t ask you to explain anything else. He didn’t ask for a list of the things you didn’t like about yourself. He didn’t tell you to stop feeling the way you did, or to be grateful, or to “just get over it.”

He just stayed.

He stayed until your breathing steadied. Until the trembling in your hands slowed. Until the silence between you was soft, not suffocating.

“Do you want to lie down?” he asked gently.

You nodded, and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t crawl under the blanket to hide. You sat beside him in the dim light of your room, his fingers loosely entwined with yours.

He looked at you like you were the moon something distant, yet beautiful, no matter how many shadows crossed your surface.

“You don’t have to believe me yet,” Junhui said after a while, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m gonna keep telling you anyway. You’re beautiful.”

You flinched.

“Not because of your skin or your shape or your features. But because you’re you. The way you laugh. The way you care. The way you show up even when you feel small.”

Tears welled in your eyes again, this time not from pain—but from the feeling of being gently known.

You leaned into him slowly, resting your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

“You make it sound easy,” you whispered.

“It’s not,” he said honestly. “It’s not easy. And it’s not instant. But I’ll remind you, as many times as you need, until one day you say it out loud to yourself.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t know how.

But the next morning, for the first time, you didn’t rush to cover your arms.

You caught Junhui watching you but not in the way that made you want to curl into yourself. He was smiling. Not because you looked different but because you looked free.

And that was the start.

Not a miracle. Not a dramatic transformation. But a beginning.

Over the next few weeks, things shifted just a little. You still had days when you felt like hiding. When the mirror was your enemy. When your reflection felt like a stranger. But Junhui never made you feel guilty for those days.

He just stayed near. Reminded you to eat. Held your hand when the voices in your head were loud. And on the days you let him in truly let him in he would sit with you on the floor and say,

“Let’s talk about anything and everything. And I’ll wait until you’re ready to talk about what hurts.”

Sometimes, you did.

Sometimes, you didn’t.

But the hiding got a little easier to resist.

One evening, after dinner and a bad rom-com, you looked at Junhui as he laughed at something stupid in the credits, and for once, you didn’t wonder if he was pretending. You didn’t wonder if you were too much. You didn’t feel like an object needing to be corrected.

You felt safe.

“baobei?” you said quietly.

He turned to you, eyes bright.

“hum?”

“Thank you.”

He tilted his head. “For what?”

“For seeing me. And staying. Even when I couldn’t.”

He reached out, brushing a thumb across your knuckles.

“There’s no version of you that could make me leave,” he said. “Not now. Not ever.”

And for the first time in a long time, you believed it. Not all the way. But enough.

Enough to finally start seeing yourself through the eyes of someone who loved you completely, unconditionally, quietly.

It had been a month since that quiet night.

And though things didn’t magically change overnight, Junhui had been patient. Gentle. Never pushing. He didn’t treat you like a project. He treated you like a person. And maybe that was the most healing thing of all.

You still hid some days. You still tugged at your sleeves. You still turned away from mirrors without realizing it.

But Junhui noticed everything even the parts you didn’t say out loud.

So one afternoon, he texted you.

[Huihui 🐱💬]: “Can I borrow you this Saturday? No excuses. Casual clothes. Just... bring yourself.”

You stared at the message, heart thudding. You weren’t sure what he had planned, but something in you trusted him.

When Saturday came, he showed up with a smile and a hoodie two sizes too big.

“For you,” he said, handing it over. “It’s mine. But I figured you’d feel safest in something familiar.”

You softened. You always felt safest when wrapped in something that smelled like him like green tea and home.

He didn’t say where you were going. Just drove. Windows down. Music low.

Eventually, you pulled into an empty art studio sunlight pouring through tall windows, dust catching in the light like floating stars.

Junhui walked ahead of you, then turned with a sheepish grin.

“I rented it for the day,” he said. “Well, it’s my friend’s, so technically it was free. But I brought snacks.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“I wanted to show you something.”

He guided you to the back, where a canvas sat on an easel. Blank. Waiting.

Next to it were dozens of photos. Some candid. Some out of focus. Some of your hands mid-gesture. Some of your laughter when you didn’t know he was watching.

And then... a mirror. Small. Old. Framed in gold. Covered by a black cloth.

You froze.

Junhui reached for your hand. “Can I show you?”

You hesitated. But then... you nodded.

He lifted the cloth.

But instead of your reflection staring back, you saw words dozens of them, written in his handwriting across the glass:

"Brave." "Soft-hearted." "Clever." "Resilient." "Magnetic." "More than your reflection." "Deserving of rest. Deserving of love. Deserving of yourself."

You reached out, fingertips grazing the glass.

“It’s not to make you like what you see,” he said softly. “It’s to remind you that you’re more than what you think you need to change.”

You swallowed hard. “You did all this... for me?”

“Because you deserve to see yourself the way I do,” he said. “And maybe, just maybe, painting together talking, laughing, getting a little messy can help you rewrite the story.”

The two of you spent hours there.

Painting nonsense. Painting chaos. Painting parts of your soul you didn’t know were aching to be seen.

He never once commented on your body. Or your posture. Or the way you wore his hoodie like armor.

He just made space.

He was quiet when you needed quiet. Loud when you needed to laugh. And solid when you needed someone to lean on.

By sunset, you had painted over the blank canvas.

And by accident or maybe not you had added a version of yourself.

Not realistic. Not perfect. But bold. With wild brushstrokes. Bright colors.

Unapologetically human.

“Do you see her?” Junhui asked, standing behind you. “The version of you that you’ve been hiding?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think I do.”

He smiled. “She’s always been there.”

Later that night, when you got home, you took a deep breath and stood in front of your bedroom mirror.

And for the first time in a long time… You didn’t look away.

You are not alone. You are worthy, just as you are. Even when you don’t believe it someone out there does. And that someone might even be you, one day. Healing is not linear. There are good days and there are hard ones. But you’re not broken. You’re not unlovable. And the people who truly care will stay not to fix you, but to love you until you begin to love yourself again. You deserve softness. You deserve kindness. You deserve to be held without having to shrink.

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friendlyrandomperson · 3 days ago

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Nice to meet you again.

Part twenty-seven!!

Despite the darkness outside and in the rest of the Post Office, the room is coated in a gentle white glow. Eddie had turned on his flashlight, angling it so that it did not fall over or get it anybody’s eyes. His excuse was so that Frank could see properly when folding paper, however the truth was Eddie likes the way Frank’s eyes light up when the grey man does something right, which is easier to see in the light.

He picks the flashlight up again and clicks the power button on the side a few times, dimming the light until it is completely gone.

Eddie places his hands on his hips, and after his eyes adjust, turns his head to Frank, who is sitting on the edge of the bed.

“You be careful tonight, alright? Don’t go gettin’ lost in the dark now.” Frank chuckles slightly, his cheeks tinted pink. Eddie takes a second to admire the man in front of him, even if he is difficult to see.

“He looks so cute in those.. wha- now Eddie, that ain’t a very neighborly thought, now is it?”

He quickly shakes his head before pointing at the bed.

“Bed’s comfy, ain’t it?”

Frank fiddles with his bowtie, which luckily air dried while him and Eddie were making that paper butterfly. He smiles nervously before responding, his voice meek.

“It is.”

Eddie nods before walking over to the side of the bed, watching as Frank shifts to sit on his knees, closer to Eddie. Ignoring the fluttering in his stomach, Eddie lays down and waves slightly, closing his eyes and turning over.

“Well, g’night!”

“… Eddie what are you doing?”

“… Going ta sleep?”

“On the floor?”

Eddie turns around and props his head up on his left hand, holding himself up by the same elbow.

“Where else? You’re takin’ the bed.”

“I can get off, I was just sitting.”

“No, it wouldn’t be right makin’ you sleep on the floor.”

“Eddie I will be fine.”

“I insist.”

“It’s your bed—“

“And yer the guest here.”

“I promise you I will manage.”

“I don’t even got a sleepin’ bag—”

“Yet another reason why you should take the bed.”

“No, it’s a reason fer you to stay up there. I’m gonna be just fine down here.”

“Eddie, please just take the bed.”

“An’ let you sleep on the floor? Sorry Frank, but I gotta stand my ground on this one.”

Eddie knocks on the tile for emphasis. Frank sighs, furrowing his brow and lying down on his side, placing his chin in his right hand and propping himself up with his right elbow, drumming his left fingers on the mattress.

“It’s clear neither one of us wants the other to sleep on the floor, but there are no other options.”

The soft drumming of Frank’s fingers, the soft breaths of the two, and the rain outside are the only sounds surrounding them.

“We could share it?”

Frank’s fingers stiffen, their gentle rhythm halted as his eyes widen in surprise.

“I- If that’s alright with you, I just thought maybe it’d be a nice compromise— oh, what am I goin’ on abou—“

“Eddie.”

Eddie pauses, glancing up at Frank.

“I am fine with it, if it will get you off of the floor.”

Frank scoots backwards, patting the space next to him.

Eddie feels his face warm up at how easily Frank accepted the offer, even if it is just to get him off of the floor. He climbs up carefully, making sure to avoid accidentally invading Frank’s personal space. Lying down next to Frank, he gives a shy little smile as he pulls his arms close to himself and closes his eyes. Frank places his hands underneath his head, closing his eyes and dozing off.

A few hours later, Frank wakes up to an unpleasant cold surrounding his body. He glances down, seeing that he has a blanket placed around him snuggly. He looks up and sees an empty space next to him. The rain has not lightened, only gotten worse, the wind howling and the doors rattling slightly. Frank gets off of the bed, laying the blanket back down before he turns around and walks towards the door. He opens it and wanders to the bathroom, clicking the door shut and not questioning or paying any mind to why Eddie is not there. He may have had to leave for a second.

He walks back into the room, the bed still empty. Now that he is a little more awake, he wonders about Eddie’s whereabouts.

“I’ll just lie back down.”

He crawls back into bed, pushing the blanket to Eddie’s side so that the man could curl up with it when he comes back. He once again places his hands underneath his head and closes his eyes, hearing Eddie return about ten minutes later.

“Hope the heater turns back on ‘fore he wakes up, I’d hate fer ‘im ta be all cold.”

Eddie’s voice is hushed, clearly trying to let Frank sleep and stay oblivious to the cold. The bed lowers slightly next to him, Eddie’s body heat helping the unpleasant feeling just a little bit. He feels the blanket wrap around him, silently appreciating Eddie’s warm hands against his cold skin. “Now how’d the blanket get all the way over there?” Eddie mumbles, rubbing his thumb back and forth against Frank’s shivering arm. Eddie leans back, curling up and warming himself up, his breaths coming out in little opaque puffs.

Frank groans softly, moving over a little bit and leaning against Eddie’s chest, giving Eddie the warmth the room lacks. He hears Eddie’s breath hitch.

“Frank?” A soft, quivering whisper. “Frank, yer awful close, you alright there?”

Silently, Frank slides his hand out, placing it right in front of Eddie’s chest. He feels a warm, firm grip around his hand with a gentle rubbing motion against his palm.

“Yer hands are real soft.”

“Yours are warm.”

Eddie tenses, warmth finding its way onto his face. He smiles gently, continuing to rub back and forth against his friend’s soft skin.

“Heh, s’pose that’s a good thing, yer shakin’ like a leaf in a storm.”

Frank wraps his fingers around Eddie’s, holding him tightly as his body continues to shake. Eddie lets his hand go, the cold replacing his hand before he feels Eddie’s arm around his shoulders, the change in temperature immediate and relieving. Frank places his hands on Eddie’s chest, smiling softly when the other man pulls him closer.

It makes sense for a man with such a warm demeanor and personality to be warm physically, and Frank is very grateful for this.

Their bodies fit together beautifully, Frank’s slender, smaller frame complimenting Eddie’s large, broader frame.

Eddie shifts, pulling Frank over and sliding his left arm around the man as well, holding him with care, as if he may fall apart. Frank allows himself to move over a little bit, resting his forehead on Eddie’s chest as their legs intertwine and Frank’s arms find themselves wrapped around Eddie’s upper waist. Frank hears Eddie’s heart, fast but steady, his breathing even and deep. Frank mumbles into the other man’s chest.

“Thank you Eddie.”

Eddie opens one eye and rests his chin, lips, and nose on the top of the smaller man’s head, responding equally as quiet.

“Anytime darlin’.”

#frank x eddie #eddie x frank #franklydear #frankly dear

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mask131 · 5 months ago

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I am re-reading the Silmarillion, and something strikes me. The women of Tolkien's world have been talked about TO DEATH especially with all the recurring debates surrounding the Rings of Power series.

As we all know, Tolkien was not a "feminist" in the modern sense of the word. He had a very male-centric point of view and appreciation of the world, he had male-driven and male-centered stories, and actual women characters were sparse and rare. There are only five really big female characters in "The Lord of the Rings" - the quintet of Galadriel, Eowyn, Goldberry, Lobelia and Shelob. [No, don't talk to me about Arwen, she only really was a character in the movies, in the book she's just there in the appendix and she was literaly an afterthought of Tolkien to act as Eowyn's romantic double...]

Consider this. Galadriel, Eowyn, Goldberry, Lobelia and Shelob. This tells you everything you need to know about Tolkien's women, in good and bad.

The Silmarillion has the same motif of having a lot of female characters, only for most of them to be just footnotes, secondary characters with no lines, under-developped one-liners... with in a contrast a handful of super-cool, super-badass, complex and developed heroines at the center of the plot.

Aka, on the bad side, when listing the Valar, while Tolkien gives an interesting personality, great domains and cool attributes to all the male ones, half of the female ones are just... there. And do one stuff. And never appear again. I mean come on... Vana and Nessa? Estë and Vairë were done dirty... That's the actual type of "non-feminism" Tolkien has. It isn't about him hating women or trying to be offensive in his depictions - it is about him just, not putting as much thought, effort and care into his female characters as his male ones, a bit the same way he creates the vast expanses of the East and South of Middle-Earth and then never bothers actually developing more of it or seeking to tell tales of it - but that's for another discussion about Tolkien's "racism". Here we talk about women.

But here's the thing, aka the good side... When Tolkien does find the time and care to develop and flesh out a female character, by Iluvatar he goes all out! Again, we are back on what I said earlier: the women of Lord of the Rings can be counted on one hand... but these fingers are Galadriel, Eowyn and Shelob, so you can't claim he isnt writing powerful, important or uninterestng female characters. Which leads me to my original remark - as usual I get driven away in digressions of all sorts and kinds.

Have you ever noticed that Melkor's greatest enemies, the ones he fears the most, and his most effective foes... are women? Tolkien might not like to put them front and center of his tales, and he might have been a man of the early 20th century England in culture and mind, but boy does he has something to say about how women are actually the first enemies of the literal embodiment of evil and destruction! I mean think about it. Varda of the Stars, and Yavanna of the trees. Nienna has her ambiguous relationship to him - her tears work against him, and yet without her plea for him he likely would not have been released from the dungeons of Mandos. You have Melian with her Girdle, and Luthien with her Hound. And of course most of all Arien, guardian of the Sun, not only one of the rare fire spirits that Melkor couldn't corrupt (despite him basically ruling over all fire), but that frightens him so much he keeps hiding away and doesn't even dare to attack her... [I also reblogged some times ago a post praising the brilliance of Tolkien keeping the old European sun-moon motifs but switching the genders. The weaker, inconsistant, lustful, whimsical, disorderly, untrustworthy Moon is now a male principle, while the steady, dangerous, strong, powerful and beautiful Sun is a woman.]

It is actually REALLY easy to do a feminist retelling of Tolkien's work. Melkor doesn't fear Manwë as much as Varda. Aulë's works and servants get corrupted by Melkor, while Yavanna's do not. Melian and Luthien actively works against him. He friggin' pisses himself when the Woman of the Sun shows up. Sure, there are some evil female characters that serve him down the line and are relegated to the "obscure footnotes and undescribed secondary characters" zone - Thuringwethil the vampire or queen Beruthiel. I coul also dropped deleted characters from early drafts, like the ogress Fluithuin. But among them stands Ungoliant... THE only true female big bad on the dark side of Arda. THE badass, nightmarish, creepy eldritch abomination. And who ends up double-crossing Melkor, almost KILLING him, and again making him basically shit in his pants - as Varda and Arien do.

The first enemies of Morgoth are not the Valar, or the Maiar, or the Elves... It's women.

#Huh... there was this woman. She had a name. Was hot. She weaved. And that's it moving on she is not actually relevant.#she's just here to ornate the text.#tolkien's legendarium #lord of the rings #silmarillion #the women of tolkien #feminism in fantasy #melkor #morgoth #seriously when you start looking at the world Tolkien created you actually can have SO MUCH FUN #i am a bit sad everybody keeps using the same analysis #the same points and the same angles over and over again #when it is clearly more open and under different lenses can become sometimes something much cooler than what people make it sound to be #i am sorry but the silmarillion sometimes sounds like a “feminist fantasy” as we can understand it today #it literaly sometimes is a glorious hymn of how the things evil fears the most and the only people who put a stop to the scheme of the devi #were women #who were queens and heroines and enchantresses and goddesses and princesses and warriors and the sun and eldritch horrors forever hungry #j.r.r. tolkien #tolkien talk #lotr #but let's be honest A LOT of other times it is just

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the-oracle-of-the-lost · 4 months ago

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Severance has really got me thinking about the ethics of sentient holograms in Star Trek. it's not quite the same thing as splitting someone's memories and treating one version of them as "not real" but it's still essentially creating aperson and expecting their entire existence to revolve around work and serving others. like The Measure of a Man was entirely about establishing that if a being is sentient then they have the right to consent and make choices about their own life and the Federation seemed to eventually agree that androids fell under that category. but then they turned around and immediately invented a new category of non-person to force to work without granting them free will and no one seems to acknowledge that this could maybe be a little ethically dubious.

#it's definitely a case of the writers not fully thinking through their utopian world and the implications therein #but i do love exploring federation hypocrisy and ethical debates #and as much as i can be annoyed by the emh in later seasons for having the same story over and over again #and disrespecting other people's privacy & autonomy #he did very much have a point in regards to hologram rights #it's also interesting because the technology seems to be new in ds9 & voyager (specifically sentient holograms. not holograms in general)#so no one in universe really knows what to do with them #and we never really revisit the subject in any trek set after that (except for the La Sirena holograms but their existence is never #explored in depth)#i forget if disco ever has any sentient holograms?#(also there's definitely a wider conversation irt holograms & the mechanization of labor in the star trek future but that's too close to #reality and i'm tired so i'll just be thinking about the like. philosophical & ethical angle)#my posts

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rabbithaver · 4 months ago

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why is this loser so hyperfixated on trying to ruin the literal one thing that brings me any amount of joy. get a hobby that isnt harassing an unemployed and disabled 27 year old about a fucking comic book

#ive tried to be nice but it's the same person every time trying to say the same shit and i don't know what their angle is #i am out of patience. i like idw silver. die mad about it. the only thing even keeping me from overdosing at this point is this dtupid comic #anyway i blocked them because im tired of it. its the same person and it has been for over a year #once again why cant people just call me slurs #ehy do they have to try to take the singular thing that makes me happy away from me #rabbit.txt

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sysig · 2 years ago

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He’s my little meow meow, my darling, my bbygirl (Patreon)

#Doodles #Commander Peepers #I'm soooooo normal about him you guys <3 So normal! <3 <3 #*Looking back over the other Little Guys I've collected* Hmmmmmmm Evil Xisuma and Spamton and Sableye and Rick Diggins #I think there might be a theme here #Just casually making Venn Diagrams in my head - Evil X has the red/black - Spamton is trans - Sableye has Gremlin energy - Rick is too tired #And those are just the ones I can think of lol - if you look I did the same stretchy pose with EX when I was still drawing him lol #The Stretch Pose is how you can tell if I like a character lol - they stretchin'? I am infatuated <3 #I mean I'm normal I'm totally normal lol #Also had to give him a bbygrl pose - I for the life of me cannot find it again but the reference is very strong in my mind's eye!#Not that I couldn't go for another one at some point lol ♪#Ugh the middle one lol - so that Word of God I mentioned in passing about female Watchdogs #I read it in passing as just a basic research of ''Oh here's what The Original Creator has to say alright neat''#Except that it Immediately made me itchy and I was like ''What. What brain this is not that big of a deal what are you doing''#And I was like ''No I'm being silly about this - just because I don't agree doesn't mean it's a big deal lol''#Except then I had stress dreams and woke up Weird the next day and the last time that happened I left a fandom #And the time before that I wrote 4 consecutive pages of 20-something panels in like 18 hours of consciousness - I have normal reactions lol #But I opted instead to vent to smol about it and she agreed with me so basically I'm just saying I'm correct lol /s #Personally Peepers doesn't strike me as misogynistic - he's very much an Equal Opportunity villain in my eyes!#And yeah I considered a lot of different angles around it but like - based on the text of WOY I just don't buy it #If it's not in the show it doesn't count! For all we know there might not even be any female Watchdogs! Lol #Would also lead to the equally-to-Spamton interesting question of How Does Trans Work in that kind of situation #I've definitely not already put a lot of thought into it don't look at me lol #Don't ask me to write an essay about both of those things I'll do it and where will that leave us lol #ANYway lol ♪ He's still the absolute funnest to draw in distress and discomfort <3 And kneeling! He makes me want to practice :D #I always feel like I can try again and do better! >:3c

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kutepik · 3 months ago

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Eyes on you

(nsfw 18+) Caleb has hidden cameras all over his house, and you've decided to put on a show for him.

2k words. posted also on ao3!

stalking, obsessive behavior, voyeurism, fem!reader.

PART 2 IS HERE!

Cameras. There were hidden cameras all over his house. There wasn't a bookcase or a mirror that didn’t have a little dot on it, almost imperceptible to the untrained eye. You only knew they were there by accident: when you took the elevator to Caleb's apartment, you bumped into an excited boy wearing a cap and uniform of a security company.

"Are you Mr. Caleb's girlfriend? What a pleasure, I only saw you in pictures!" The boy waved, taking you by surprise.

"No... I'm just a friend." You said a little confused, and the energetic boy explained himself.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I saw so many photos of Mr. Caleb with you the day I went to install those cameras that I thought you were dating. He also said he was installing the cameras to protect someone he liked." Cameras? What cameras? You thought, but before you could say anything, the elevator door opened and the boy jumped out. "Let me know if any of them stop working, I've installed so many I've almost lost count! Bye!" And so he disappeared down the hall.

Now you were in the living room, standing there in the middle, feeling the weight of your body and your movements, self-conscious about yourself and alert to the fact that you were being watched. Was he watching you? Now? Right now? That’s fucked up. Jail worthy. Caleb was obsessed with you and if your recent reunion hadn't already proved it, the dozen or hundreds of hidden cameras scattered around that room were proof that Caleb was sick.

But we know the saying: When you point one finger, there are three fingers pointing back to you. More sickening than knowing that you were being watched, from every angle and probably in every room, was the fact that you were aroused. The spot between your legs throbbed, excited by the situation, by the fact that Caleb had probably seen you naked, had seen you sleeping, had seen you showering... It was so fucking wrong that, despite being against everything he had done in Skyhaven right after the reunion, you still delighted in remembering the possessiveness and obsession that melted at the words of your friend, oh, dear friend.

In addition to the burning sensation between your legs, there was this tingle in your stomach at the thought of a man - not just any man, we're talking about Caleb - being so concerned, so devoted to you that he would kill and die for your happiness. In fact, a man who returned from the ashes and survived for you and you alone. He was no longer your sweet childhood friend... But that wasn't a bad thing. Now he became a man who had eyes (many, it seems, all over the house), only and exclusively for you. Caleb was crazy about you, and, oh shit, you loved it, which made you as crazy as he was.

So you had two options: the first was to confront Caleb about why the fuck he had installed so many cameras in the apartment if the only person who spent time there apart from him was you; the second was to pretend you didn't know anything and carry on with your life as if everything was normal.

You always chose the second option when it came to Caleb, ever since you were a teenager and in college. Whether it was sneaking around his room and finding your panties secretly hidden in the back of his closet, or listening to him masturbate while calling your name when he thought he was alone, you always pretended everything was normal. But ever since, and even more so now that you've found each other again, there was nothing normal about it, and no reason to carry on in the same way. After all, if he had changed, there was no reason for you to remain the same or pretend you didn't know anything.

Then there was a third and new option: pretending not to know anything, but taking advantage of the situation to play with Caleb. Basically, make him taste his own medicine. If he wanted to see you, well, he would.

Pretending to be normal, you sat down on the sofa and took off your coat, throwing it on the coffee table. You took out your cell phone and called his number.

"Is my favorite guest home yet?" Caleb answered in his usual animated voice.

"Yeah. I'm bored. Still working? Is it break time?" You remembered that around this time he was most active on social media, so it should be the best time to put into action what you had in mind.

"Ah…You've always been very clever. Yes, I'm on break. I'll be home in two hours and we can do whatever you want. Don't get bored, you can turn on the TV or play a game on the console I have." Caleb was always like that, attentive to you, always wanting to please you. He wasn't much of a gamer, but because you liked games, he had bought a console with the excuse that he was getting interested in games. But now you weren't going to play with the console. You were going to play with something else.

"Oh, no..." You put the phone on speaker and placed it on the arm of the sofa. You lifted your shirt and brought your fingers up to your bra, massaging your nipples. "I want to relax, not play." You said, holding your right breast while spreading your legs, slipping anxious fingers into your pants, brushing the fingertips against the wet panties.

The call went silent. Bingo. He was indeed watching you, like the pervert he was.

"Caleb?" You asked innocently, keeping your voice steady as you started moving your hand in circles, making it obvious what you were doing inside those tight pants.

"A-ah, yes. Relax..." His breathing was heavy on the other end of the line, and suddenly you heard the sound of a zipper being opened. You had to stop yourself from moaning just then. He was starting to touch himself while watching you. "Why don't you, uh, take a shower in my bathroom?" His voice was a little choked. He was probably pumping himself slowly, staring at your live image through the screen in his office. Your pussy throbbed and suddenly your pants were too tight and too hot. You stopped stroking your own breasts and took both hands to the waistband of your trousers, sliding them down your legs. Then you took off your shirt, leaving only your panties and bra on. You positioned yourself again, this time with your legs spread wider and your heels resting on the table in front of the sofa. Your fingers returned to the soaked fabric of your panties, touching the sensitive clit through the wet cloth.

"Yeah, I'll have a shower, I'm just finishing something up." With your middle finger, you moved your panties to one side to touch yourself directly. You bit your lip, holding back a moan, and squeezed your breast with your other hand.

"Fuck..." he swore.

"All right?" You replied innocently, holding back your unsteady voice as you carried on stimulating your clit at a steady pace. You wanted him to think you didn't know about the cameras, so you had to stay as normal as possible on the phone.

"Yup... I- I just hit my finger," he lied, slurring his words.

"Caleb-" You said, catching your breath. "I miss you,"

"I miss you too." He sounded almost breathless. "I can come over now."

"No, you can't. There's work. Or is there something urgent you need to do here?" You quickly pulled down your panties, leaving them between your thighs. Then, out of the blue, you heard the unmistakable sound of a camera zooming in. He must have been eating you with his eyes, and now he wanted a closer look. You opened your folds, circling your fingers around the soaked entrance, like a pervert. You slowly moved the fingers up to your clit, stimulating yourself obscenely again. The other end of the line was completely silent, only a few low sounds and grunts were audible. "Caleb, is there something urgent you need to do here?"

"Uh-" He stammered, and you raised your hips a little, grinding against your hand. "Fuck, fuck," he said. He didn't bother with sentences anymore.

"What’s up with you? I'm feeling lonely and bored here. Can't you entertain me?" You teased innocently, but your legs were already shaking.

"I can entertain you. Ah-" For a second, you heard the wet, rhythmic sound of his thrusts against his own hand. Oh my. Caleb had his pants down, sat somewhere in the FAA, and was touching himself like a teenager while he watched you. And you fucking loved it. "I can entertain you... I can be so, so good for you, if you let me." His voice was raspy and breathless. If you weren't so close to your orgasm, you might've asked him if everything was alright and put him in a tough spot again, but you couldn't even think about that. You were too caught up in your own pleasure. One hand was on your nipple under your bra, the other was all over your clit, and you arched your back on the sofa.

"I- I know you know how to entertain me. You're so good to me, always." You gasped, no longer caring that he was probably listening to the sound of your quick fingers against the wet flesh of your vagina.

Suddenly, you heard a muffled cry on the other end of the line and several "Fuck, fuck, fuck" being whispered like a mantra at a low volume, as if he had his hand against his own mouth. He was coming. And that was all it took for the tingling at the base of your belly to explode and flow out of your pussy in an obscene and intense orgasm.

You had just squirted all over the living room table and carpet, and had probably wet the sofa as well. The two of you were silent, only the audible gasp of your breaths as you caught your breath.

"Caleb? Are you still there? It seems the connection was cut." You lied, still pretending you didn't know anything. He coughed and the sound of things being adjusted or stirred could be heard in the background.

"Yeah, yeah… Probably disconnected or something."

You got up and stood next to the sofa, looking at the mess you had left there.

"Caleb I think I spilled...something on your sofa and carpet. Is there any cleaning cloth so I can clean it up?" You looked around.

"NO!" Caleb almost shouted from the other side. "I mean, it's no problem, pipsqueak. You don't have to clean up. You must be tired from all this, right?" He cleared his throat. "From the trip, and everything. Just rest more, like I said, you can use my bathroom and take a shower if you want."

"Hm, where's that cleaning freak from before? Who are you and what have you done with my Caleb?" You heard a laugh on the other end of the line.

"That's why. I'll take care of it. Please" The last word sounded as if he was begging. "I'll be home soon, and I'll be able to...entertain you, as you wish. We can, huh, relax together, too."

You laughed and picked up your cell phone, walking to the bathroom while dropping your bra in the hallway, knowing that he was watching here too. You picked up your wet panties and placed them on the bathroom door handle. In an instant, you could see a small dot hidden next to a painting, pointing directly at where you were standing. You stared directly at it, smiled and winked.

"I'm waiting for you then, Caleb."

Part 2 is here

#caleb x reader #love and deepspace #caleb x mc #caleb x you #love and deepspace caleb #lads caleb #caleb smut #lads smut #kutepik

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moondustbaby · 1 month ago

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Hi girly!! Can I please request for a rafe fic with the “my current boyfriend” trend on tiktok. Like i can imagine him being so pressed about it lol

Thank you 🤩

“My Current Boyfriend”

pov: You try to do the “current boyfriend” prank during a fit check and forget Rafe has zero chill.

⸻

Your phone’s angled up on the windowsill, and the little red recording light flashes just as Rafe wanders into frame, finishing off the rest of his Gatorade.

You smile sweetly at the camera. “Okay, hi guys! I’m here with my current boyfriend and we’re gonna do a little fit check—”

Rafe chokes.

“Current boyfriend??” he blurts out, eyebrows shooting up like you just announced a funeral and a baby shower in one sentence.

You keep going like nothing happened. “So I’m wearing this cute little set from—”

“Hold on,” Rafe interrupts, stepping fully in front of you to stare into the camera. “Did you just say current boyfriend like there’s gonna be a next one?”

You bite your lip, playing innocent. “I mean… I’m just saying current like…present-tense.”

Rafe stares you down. “Nah. Say only boyfriend. Say forever boyfriend. Say will-haunt-you-if-you-leave-me boyfriend.”

“Rafe—”

He turns to the camera again, pointing at himself. “This isn’t a subscription. This isn’t a trial period. There’s no 7-day free access to Rafe Cameron dot com. I’m a lifetime warranty.”

You snort.

Rafe starts pacing in frame, waving his arms. “Current. That’s wild. That’s actually insane. Do you know how many sandwiches I’ve made for you? You think this is a seasonal man??”

“Okay but the outfit—”

“No. Tell them where my hoodie’s from. Tell them it’s the same one you stole six months ago. Tell them it smells like me and now you can’t sleep without it.”

You break into laughter, camera wobbling as Rafe marches over and grabs your face between his palms, all dramatic and pouty.

“Say you love me.”

“Rafe—”

“Say it or I’ll post that picture of you crying over the finale of Bake Off.”

You’re breathless from laughing. “Okay! Okay. I’m here with my forever boyfriend.”

Rafe nods like a smug menace. “That’s what I thought.”

And then—because he’s Rafe—he slaps your ass, winks at the camera, and says, “Fit check: mine.”

a/n: i hadn’t seen this tiktok prank until today when leah and miguel (s6 love island peeps) video popped up on my fyp, this was a fun one to write and rafe would definitely crash out a bit lmao. thank you for the req nonnie!! 🫶🏻

♥️ lani

Send Me Requests! 💌

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anantaru · 1 month ago

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EX HUSBAND SYLUS

— ꒰ synopsis ꒱ — ex! husband sylus headcanons

— ꒰ warnings ꒱ — fem! reader, oral (fem! receiving), possessive ex husband trope, stalking, voyeurism, pervert sylus, he misses you, hitting it raw, masturbation, fantasizing about you

ex husband sylus who never took his ring off— what he will do instead was pretend he did. to save face in public? for sure. in reality it's tucked away in a drawer— your drawer, the one you used to keep your lip balms and perfumes in as his wedding band lays beside your jewelry. sometimes, when sylus was feeling especially sad, he takes it out and sleeps with it in his palm, mostly when he's feeling lost or conflicted.

ex husband sylus who still uses your name as his passwords and changes them every cycle, frankly, they always consist of things related to you, for example your birthday or favorite pet, most beloved color or nickname he used to call you— one in particular consisted of the coordinates of the place you honeymooned in.

ex husband sylus calls it "muscle memory" when his fingers twitch in that same obsessive rhythm when he dreams about you and the way they used to press against your hips too, fuck, his dream was slowly turning into a particular kind again, eagerly fantasizing on how he used to grip your thighs when he cummed inside you.

ex husband sylus who still watches you, wether it was through mephisto, luke and kieran or when he's got some time to spare himself. he still watches from a distance, not stalkerish in his own eyes— protective if he had to explain it— and well, of course he tracks your location silly, of course he still has access to your security cameras so he always knows when you could be in possible danger. (or when you could be bringing someone else home)

ex husband sylus watches you in agony each night, especially when you're alone— most dearly when you're touching yourself and sylus filthily mouths along with the whimpers you tend to make while bullying your fingers past your hole— fuck, he can practically taste you on his tongue, his teeth sinking into his fist just to stop himself from calling you, just to hold himself back from watching you in such intimate way.

ex husband sylus who wasn't dating, instead, he's trying to feel you again through proxies, through ghosts, yet it's never enough, nothing ever was. and every time he fucked someone else— and well despite it being rare, he's always thinking of you within it, pretending it's your soft cunt he's feeling, fingering someone and saying your name, or getting head while his brain replays the exact angle of your throat and how you adored taking him when lastly, finishing into someone's mouth, then plastering it back onto their face because it just wasn't you.

ex husband sylus who runs into you in public— by chance or "chance" when he immediately plays it cool with his signature crooked smirk and head being slightly tilt, that's how you knew him, casual as ever. regardless, what you do not see was that his hands were shaking and afterwards, he goes home hard, ever so frustrated and fists his cock until he's feeling dizzy, saying your name over and over like a prayer and a curse at the same time. this is when sylus realizes that he will never get over you and you could so much as brush past him, his dick will twitch like it remembers, and obviously it does, it always does.

ex husband sylus who dreams about the filthiest version of you, no matter how many times it's always the same— he fantasizes about you apologizing and sobbing, begging him to touch you again after the divorce was settled and in his dream, sylus doesn't speak, he just pins you down with that glacial calmness inside of him and fucks you deep and rough, until you scream his name the same way you did the night he proposed to you.

following this, when he wakes up at last, there's cum all over his hand and funnily enough, he hasn't even touched himself, in fact, his body doesn't need to anymore, at this point you're carved into his nervous system.

ex husband sylus who sends you encrypted messages, believing that you do not know that it's him. okay, at first you really thought you had gained a new stalker besides your ex husband, considering they came through systems you no longer used— apps you've forgotten, channels buried in layers of old code.

honestly, you think you're dreaming when you hear your old ringtone late at night— but he's there, typing while watching you, bleeding through the digital static like a ghost in the machine.

"you wore the red silk dress last night." "you touched yourself at 2:17 a.m. i almost came just hearing you." "i will never stop being yours."

yes, it's a bit creepy, so you delete them, but they always come back.

ex husband sylus who believes that, well, perhaps you two weren't a good fit on paper, but in bed? fuck, he's never felt peace like that again. on the outside, you were sweet, yes, but filthy, so fucking sexy that you used to ride him with both hands flat on his chest, whispering the nastiest shit into his ears— telling him how thick he felt in your tight cunt or how impossibly big he was, how much you needed his cum or how your cunt ached when he didn't fuck you hard enough, not to mention how full you liked to be of his warm, sticky cum over and over.

sometimes you'd even edge him just to watch him break apart right underneath you, letting him whimper and beg you to be able to spill himself inside your soft pussy. and what happened when you finally let him have it you ask? obviously you'd kiss him slow and open mouthed, your tongue tenderly dancing around his own, "i love you sylus," you whine as he cums untouched from that alone.

after all this time, he's never forgotten that night.

ex husband sylus who still uses your shampoo as your scent lives in his hair whenever he showers. sylus still uses your old bottle— down to the last dribble as his entire bathroom looks like a shrine of things you love— one of your old towels still folded on the rack like you're coming back, like it belongs there, because to him, it does.

ex husband sylus who, when he jerks off— daily, violently, he uses your lotion, the one that smells like your favorite scent, the one his nostrils would pick up on when he was deep into your guts. now, when he fists his cock and heaves out your name, nose buried in the sleeve of your old dress you forgot at his place, he's moaning like he's losing his mind, his cum dribbling all over his knuckles and making a mess only you, in his mind, were capable to clean up with your tongue.

ex husband sylus who's furious that you're letting anyone else fuck you— and listen now, even if you didn't, even if it was just a rumor, sylus seethes just imagining you spreading your legs for someone else's hands, not to mention someone else's mouth. when he comes across the rumor of you finding another partner, he doesn't sleep, he doesn't eat either— yet when you see him again by chance, there's something unhinged in his gaze, not angry of course, but hollow, like the version of him that once smiled has been overwritten with cold calculation.

but all it took was your voice, one tremble, one "sylus…" and he cracks again, immediately grabbing your face and saying, "don't ever make me think you've moved on again," as he suffocates the space between your lips to finally kiss you after all this time, with tears beading his lashes at being one with you again.

this wasn't supposed to happen, originally you just wanted to nod politely and pass him like strangers in a city that once belonged to the both of you, pick up the things you've left in his house and be gone for good this time. yet he said your name— your name, not the ghost of it, not the public version people used, but the one he whispered against your bare skin and suddenly you were trembling like a violin string plucked too hard.

fuck, he kissed you like nothing had changed, like it hadn't been months, like you hadn't signed papers with hands that wouldn't stop shaking now, like your lawyer hadn't had to slide the pen back into your grip, the same grip that was now entangled in his hair. after all, you could still remember when sylus stood across the room and refused to look at you, his jaw clenched so tight you could hear the bones grind.

his mouth still felt the same— dangerously soft and wickedly sure, feeling like memory, yet tasting like sin, as if his regret was set on fire. yet your body responded before your mind could even catch up and process on what was happening— your hands messily in his hair, your nails digging and dragging him into you, your lips parting because he needed to be let in.

you hated him, no, you loved him, fuck, you hated that you still loved him.

he drops to his knees and eats your pussy like he's starving— no prep, no teasing, just tongue fucking you with brutal, obsessive precision. you're gasping his name, thighs shaking around his head and cunt clenching on nothing, yet he doesn't stop even when your knees buckle and your hands fist through his silver hair.

you cum on his face that night, multiple times in fact, because he won't stop until he feels you sobbing, "you taste the same," he drawls hoarsely, wiping his mouth on your thigh, "fuck— you taste like you're still mine," as you're soaking him, messing up his chin with your slick when you're riding his face. sylus pins you open like it's a crime to let you close, eating you out like the only thing that could ever satisfy him was the sound of your wrecked little pussy and the way your slick stained his tongue so fucking nicely.

ex husband sylus who hates condoms now, you barely used them when you were married yet tried to be responsible, although now? he rips them from your hand, "we were married, do you think i care about this?" as he pushes his cock through you in one raw, thick, unrelenting stroke. he fucks you like it's the last time— because perhaps afterwards you might remember that you're still divorced and shouldn't be doing this.

everything that crossed sylus's mind right now was that if he doesn't fill you up, he'll lose you again. fuck, he's angry, but he doesn't know why, or maybe he just wanted to be mad at something— wanted to pretend it's not desperation that guided him, no aching grief that was wrapped in jealousy and lust as he could never forgive himself for letting you go.

in this moment in time, he's inside of you again and it feels like heaven— fucking you like the resentment's burning through his spine, and even though he was still mad, it's lost somewhere within the brutal rhythm of each thrust shattering your body. his hips crash into yours with punishing force as his nails bite deep into your soft hips like he's holding onto something that just kept slipping away.

and the sounds you're making, fuck, you must be joking, the slap of his balls against your ass repeatedly echoing the wet squelch of your cunt receiving his blows again and again— it made it impossible to think, let alone say his feeling out loud. and when he cums? he watches it leak out of you with a look of silent lust before greedily shoving it back in with his fingers, "i want it to stay," he whispers, "i want you so full that you have no other choice but to dream about me."

ex husband sylus who knows you were the only thing that ever calmed him down, the only one who could ever talk him off the ledge when his voice cracks with static and fury and guilt, you were the one that got under his skin and stayed there. but with you leaving? it wasn't just heartbreak, it was a full system collapse and now he's running on fumes as he just wanted to grab you forever, drag you back into his bed and his world, his hell, you could say, and ruin you all over again.

and ex husband sylus didn't want to lie to you, really, didn't want to pretend you had left something inside his house because he hated you, no, he wasn't selfish either, it's not your body he wanted, you have to believe him on that one— but because he still loves you with the sickness of a man who has never known how to live outside of your orbit. the way a dying star didn't simply fall into gravity— it clung to it the same way sylus clasped his arms around you this very second.

ex husband sylus's love was just like that, you see? like something terminal, like your absence alone was a wound he himself repeatedly presses into, over and over, just to remember what your warmth used to feel like.

#love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace smut #love and deep space x reader #love and deep space smut #lads x reader #lads smut #sylus x reader #sylus smut #lads x you #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace fanfiction #love and deepspace drabbles #lads drabbles

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viperify · 1 month ago

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COD | ᴋᴏ̈ɴɪɢ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Coming Home.

Short Summary: König doesn’t know how to be gentle. Especially not when he’s just come back home after not seeing you for six whole months—

Warnings: 18+ only! dubious consent. somno, rough sex, breeding kink, size kink, manhandling, belly bulge, creampie, cumplay

A/N: this is me attempting to write for someone other than Tom.

wordcount: 1,9k

König didn’t even bother taking off his heavy boots when he entered your shared home. No—the only thing that had been on his mind ever since he stepped out of your front door six months ago was you. Or better: The supple flesh of your thighs, pressed tightly to either side of his head as he ate you out. The soft curve of your ass, fitting so perfectly into his palm. Your lips with his favourite gloss on them, wrapped around his thick girth—

“Fucking hell.” He cursed under his breath as he almost tripped in his hurry—over a new vase you had bought just a week prior. Something that he, quite obviously, couldn’t have known or seen, as he didn’t even bother turning on the lights when he entered. Each time he returned from deployment, he’d find new decoration scattered around the house. How often had he told you it was enough? Too often. You just wouldn’t listen, and at some point he just gave up and accepted his fate.

That fucking vase was the least of his worries either way, at least for now. Was it broken? It sure sounded like it. But hell, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d just get you a new one the next day.

You. He needed you. König didn’t bother picking it up, instead heading straight to your bedroom—the floor’s wooden planks creaking under his weight as he ascended the stairs. As careful and deliberate as he could—as not to wake you.

The bedroom door stood just slightly ajar, allowing him to spot the dim light of the bedside table lamp that you must have forgotten to turn off. König pushed himself past the door, and finally, after six long months, got to see you again. Yes, you had face timed almost every day, but it was just not the same. Didn’t feel the same as your soft touch, your lips—

He stood there for another moment, admiring your soft, innocent silhouette on the bed. One leg angled up, duvet slipped to the side, exposing your bare skin to his eyes. Your top, which had slipped during the course of the night, now allowed him to see the soft swell of your breasts—perked nipples visible under the satin material.

And fuck—last time he saw you in those flimsy, hot-pink pyjama shorts you were wearing, he could have sworn they covered at least the curve of your ass—unlike now.

The sight of you like this, asleep, all innocent, unknowing of his return—he had left a day early—sent blood rushing straight to his cock. It had been too fucking long.

The mattress sank under his weight as he carefully lay down beside you, admiring your form once more—the soft rise of your chest as you breathed, fingers relaxed and curled up—and all his. He had missed having something all for himself.

Gently, he turned you around, your head against his chest, legs spread, and still asleep, his hand briefly coming to a rest on your tummy—and he sighed.

Your warmth.

But he had no intent to wait any longer. Hand travelling further south, over the waistband of your shorts, between your thighs—

“Mein Gott—“ König mumbled under his breath when he felt the damp fabric beneath his fingers. You were fucking soaked.

He pressed a soft kiss to your temple before sliding the material down your thighs, leaving you in just your panties. Finally dipping beneath the lace, he growled—a low sound somewhere from the back of his throat as he felt your arousal coat his finger.

Too slow—too fucking slow. One digit circled your entrance before he pushed in—and god, it felt heavenly. Your warm walls gripped him tightly, sucking him right in. Then, a second finger, already struggling there. But he made it fit. Gave you a few seconds to adjust, then started pumping his fingers in and out of you, curling them just how he knew you would like it—

“König?” You mumbled, voice thick with sleep as your eyelids fluttered open, a slightly painful, yet pleasurable sensation radiating from between your legs.

He looked down at you then, his blue eyes staring right back at you.

Yes, definitely him.

“Liebling, forgive me. I couldn’t— I can’t wait any longer.” He apologized half-heartedly, burying his fingers knuckle deep inside of you—and fuck, you almost forgot how much bigger he was than you. Everything about him, his height, his arms, his fingers…

“Hurts,” you gasped, but he merely shushed you, telling you how much he needed this, needed you.

And who were you to say no to him at this point? You did miss him just as much, after all. And that dream you had about him just before you woke up—

Just when König felt you relaxing around him, finally adjusting, he withdrew his fingers, parting his lips to taste you.

“Mmpf— missed this so much,” he drawled, and just a moment later he was between your legs, fingers curling into the lace of your panties, the material easily giving in with a sharp tear.

Those were your favourite.

“I loved those!” You protested, but it was too late anyway, and the sound of his belt dropping to the floor drew your attention back to your boyfriend. He didn’t waste a second undressing, trousers merely past his hips before his cock sprang free, thick and already leaking at the tip, so hard it must have hurt.

“Will get you new ones—“ he breathed, leaning over you to press a kiss to your swollen lips. “I promise, Engel. Just be good for me now.”

You only had to nod, enough of a signal for him to continue, tip pressing against your entrance—and you inhaled sharply, preparing yourself. You knew him by now, and each time he was this eager, it meant you would struggle to walk properly in the morning.

His hips stuttered at the mere contact with your wet cunt, and he slipped inside—just the tip, yet enough to make him groan. “Relax, baby. Just relax and let me have this.”

Another inch and another inch—you were sweating by then, and fuck, it felt good to have him back—but sometimes you wished he wasn’t this big. You were stretched out around him, walls pulsing as they tried to accommodate his girth. God, it was hard to relax. But you tried.

Two more inches.

“König, gentle!” You squealed beneath him, and his eyes met yours briefly—before they dropped to where you were connected.

“Fuck— sorry, can’t—“ he rasped, pushing in deeper. “Can’t wait any longer. You can take it. Just— take it.”

And with one more slight thrust, his hips were flush with yours, finally. Tip nudging at your cervix.

His head dipped to your neck, breathing heavily, staying there for just a moment to let you adjust to him. He knew you were struggling, but fuck. You just felt too good around him, too warm, too wet. In that moment, he realised just how much he had missed you.

“So tight. This pussy is so goddamn tight.”

He pulled back just enough for you to feel it, and pushed back in. Even in the dim light the lamp provided, he saw it. The outline of his cock on your lower abdomen as he pushed in and out of you. It made him fucking feral.

König’s hand traced the slight bulge before pressing down on it. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am?”

“Oh my— yes— fuck, yes.” You whimpered, and he gave you another slight thrust, trying to set a rhythm.

“No,” he breathed, shaking his head. “Need you like this.” And instead of asking you to get on all fours, he just wrapped his arm around your waist, roughly repositioning you himself, almost like you weighed nothing, like you were a doll. Ass up, face down. Just how he liked to take you.

He pushed back inside, and you jolted at the new angle—he felt even bigger like this. But no. König wouldn’t let you go anywhere. His fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so your back was pressed flush against his chest.

“Sei ein braves Mädchen, ja?” He growled right in your ear, his hot breath on your skin having goosebumps rise all over your body. You remembered that one.

Be a good girl, alright?

“Yes! Please just—“ you whimpered, hips bucking against his, a sign you were ready. A sign you needed him just as much as he needed you.

König pushed your face back into your pillow, letting go of your hair then—and thrust forward. Deep and fast. The force sending your body forward once more.

“Stay—bleib hier.” He sneered, his rough, calloused hands gripping the soft flesh of your hips, pulling you back against him, making sure you stayed right there.

From that point on, he was merciless with you. Pounding into your warm, welcoming walls like it was the first time all over again. So harsh, it knocked the air from your lungs, and you were sure your cervix would be punishing you with cramps for this later.

You couldn’t bring yourself to care, not right now.

Not when you felt him twitch and pulse, hands slipping between your thighs to rub on your clit—tight circles that had you see stars, fingers curling into the cotton fabric of your bedsheets.

Your combined moans echoed around the room, and you were sure if you were living in a flat, your neighbours would fucking hate you. Not that you would mind.

“Fuck, Liebling—“ he groaned, thrusts growing erratic. He was close. So, so close. “Going to come inside, ja? Make you nice and full of me.”

You loved how his German accent grew thicker whenever he was aroused or angry, and you didn’t even pay attention to what he was saying at the end—mind too hazy to even comprehend his words at that point, on the verge of tipping over the edge yourself. You nodded anyway.

With just a few more thrusts, he spilled inside of you, his warm release coating your walls—the feeling of it sending you right into your own bliss of pleasure, your climax ripping through you like a lightning bolt—setting your nerves on fire as you convulsed around him, your cunt eagerly milking him dry.

He slowly pulled out of you then, staying behind you, watching his cum drip down your folds before pushing it back inside—deep.

“Not going to let you waste a single drop, Engel.”

König was sweet with you after, like always. Cleaning you up with a wet towel, taking you in his arms as he muttered soft praises against your hair. Staying awake until you were asleep.

Then, he dozed off himself and only woke the next morning when he heard your voice coming from downstairs, the usual softness gone. Replaced with? Anger? What could he have possibly—

“Did you break my vase!?”

Scheiße.

Thanks for reading! Feel free to reblog and leave feedback. <33

#ᯓᢉ𐭩 ᴍᴀʀ’ꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ #how did I do? I am nervous.#könig #könig cod #könig call of duty #könig smut #könig x reader #könig fanfiction #konig cod #konig smut #konig x reader #konig fanfiction #cod #call of duty #dividers by saradika #dividers by strangergraphics

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superhoeva · 2 months ago

Text

if there’s one thing about jack abbot, it’s that he’s going to mock you during sex… though never done out of cruelty or with any malicious intent. if fact, the two of you don’t even think of it as such—mocking.

his words are more of a… provocative ribbing that he knows will flood your mind with a haze. a haze you’re comfortable with floating in, that fills you full, right into a world-bending breaking point.

you’re both on your sides, facing and pressing against each other. substituting oxygen with your panting huffs, jack inhales your moans with sloppy, spit-slick kisses. he feels you shiver in his arms when he slips himself back inside, resettling your leg over his hip to push as far into your pussy as you’ll let him.

jack smirks to himself, his palm moving to splay against the cheek of your ass and yank you closer. he grunts through a sudden exhale at the new angle, commencing a roll of his waist that causes a gasp to burn your lungs.

“fuck, jack,” your mewl, voice weak and wobbly. “ah—ah, ‘s so deep…”

“is it? s’it nice and deep, baby?” he mumbles at your lips, copying your desperate nod and small yeahs with an expression of pity you can tell is fake. “wonder ‘f i can get any deeper...”

you aren’t given a chance to wonder the same before jack is gripping your ass with a stronger squeeze. his tender thrusts adjust into a sharp, sturdy pounding that jerks his balls back and forth against your pussy.

leaking around his thickness, you hand reaches behind to clench the sheet beneath you. it’s the only thing you can manage, the rest of your mind a sweet mush.

“t-too much.” you can barley talk, air escaping your body faster than you can replace it. “it’s too much, feels too good.”

jack doesn’t let up, cock throbbing and pumping hard into your heat. his bottom lip pokes out, just barely, matching your blissed out expression.

“oh, ‘too much, it’s too much’,” he recites, drawing out the words in a teasing tone you wouldn’t tolerate from anyone else. “i don’t think so, baby. shit, you’re doing so good. takin’ my cock all nice and pretty.”

you crumble against jack but he holds you steady. lips smushed into his neck, you smear it messy with the spit drooling from slurred, open-mouthed mumbles.

“you’re so big,” you stammer, vision going blurry at the wet squelch that sounds whenever he rears out of you, and subsequent groan that jumps from jack when he slicks back inside your creaming hole.

“ooh, i‘m so big?” jack keeps his pace steady through the witty responses, and you can’t yourself from meeting his thrusts with your own grind. you don’t have to see him to feel the grin quirking the corners of his mouth. “hm? maybe i should pull out, give you a break—”

“no. no,” you whine over the rocking of the bed, clutching his as if he’s truly considering slipping his cock out and leaving you empty and cold. “no, don’t stop. gonna come again…”

the words flip a switch in jacks brain and he fucks you the hardest he has all night. foot planting into the bed, he sounds with deep coos at your uncontrollable cries he forces out of you.

it’s disgusting, the way you’ve coated his member in a velvety mixture of your juices. dripping down, it even collects against his sack, glossing him and making his eyes roll.

“gimme that cum, baby. just like last time, squirt it all out for me.”

you body goes numb yet feels like it’s imploding all at once. jack watches the way you shiver in his grasp, clenching around his swollen cock as you gush messily. he fucks you through it, the liquid spurting to wet his stomach and balls.

“that’s it,” he chokes out, inching dangerously close to his own finish. it only takes a few more pulses of your peak to finally clutch his own, plunging feverishly until he’s balls deep inside you. “f-fuck, yeah, right there.”

jack breaks. groaning into the side of your face and latching onto you while comes, the inescapable bliss makes his entire body twitch with harsh trembles.

“holy fuck, i’m still goin,” jack almost growls, air caught in his throat at the continuous ropes of cum he spills into you. the both of you are still heaving and coming as he leaks out of you. your lips puffy and swollen, and a sticky mess. it goes on for so long that jack ends up laughing through his moans, stomach sore from all the clenching.

it takes a few more minutes for your bodies to finally melt into tangled piles of limbs, the warm residue of your climax swimming nicely in your belly.

“you still with me, gorgeous?”

the only response you can muster is a sleepy mm-mm, and he gives you an equally-exhausted laugh. you only find the strength to peel open your eyes when a soft hand cradles your chin to tilt your head.

eyelids fluttering, you stare at him in a lost, fuzzy daze. thumb stroking your cheek, jack blinks sleepily at you before planting a soft kiss on the corner of your lips.

“i’m right here,” he promises, words certain but still far away when they reach your ears. “right here, baby. need you to come back for me, okay?”

a whine seeps from your lips. it’s not a defiance but you’re not obliging him either. you’re just… still in orbit, where you are the sun and jack’s the earth just before a dawn; as usual, he’ll push past the incoming fatigue, and wait for the otherworldly, ingrained tug that will eventually pull you back to him.

“right here…”

#jack abbot smut #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #dr jack abbot x reader #jack abbot imagine #dr abbot x reader #dr abbot #jack abbott smut #jack abbott x reader #jack abbott x you #jack abbott #the pitt x reader #the pitt hbo #the pitt #sorry if this is bad #my horrible headache came back but i had to appease my muse <3

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