#the scripted questions are weird as always | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sixeyesonathiel · 1 month ago

Text

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

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

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

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

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

the compressor’s peaking again.

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

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

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

ping.

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

you.

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

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

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

“no,” he types, then erases it.

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

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

i guess. send what you have.

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

flashback.exe

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

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

but you were different.

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

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

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

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

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

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

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

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

typical.

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

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

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

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

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

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

he watches again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he’s close. too close.

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

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

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

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

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

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

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

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

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

np.

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

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

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

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

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

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

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

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

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

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

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

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

to replay your giggle.

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

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

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

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

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

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

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

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

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

ping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he freezes.

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

you giggle.

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

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

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

satoru’s fingers twitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he tries to normalize it.

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

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

he tells himself he’s just learning.

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

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

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

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

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

the next class is worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a new text lights up his screen:

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

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

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

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

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

he hates himself.

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

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

it starts with static in his skull.

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

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

it doesn’t help.

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

satoru’s trying.

really.

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

2:03 a.m.

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

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

march haul (raw).mp4

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

click.

of course he does.

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

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

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

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

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

he knows it.

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

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

he does.

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

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he doesn’t blink.

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

he can’t breathe.

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

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

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

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

but it’s you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it’s been three weeks.

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

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

the worst part?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

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

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

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

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

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

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

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

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

baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

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

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

it starts with a ping.

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

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

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

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

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

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

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

satoru doesn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your silence makes him spiral.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

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

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

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

“i know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“mine.”

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

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

friday’s going to be filthy.

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s-soulwriter · 7 months ago

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Things Real People Do in Dialogue (For Your Next Story)

Okay, let’s be real—dialogue can make or break a scene. You want your characters to sound natural, like actual humans talking, not robots reading a script. So, how do you write dialogue that feels real without it turning into a mess of awkward pauses and “ums”? Here’s a little cheat sheet of what real people actually do when they talk (and you can totally steal these for your next story):

1. People Interrupt Each Other All the Time In real conversations, nobody waits for the perfect moment to speak. We interrupt, cut each other off, and finish each other's sentences. Throw in some overlaps or interruptions in your dialogue to make it feel more dynamic and less like a rehearsed play.

2. They Don’t Always Say What They Mean Real people are masters of dodging. They’ll say one thing but mean something totally different (hello, passive-aggressive banter). Or they’ll just avoid the question entirely. Let your characters be vague, sarcastic, or just plain evasive sometimes—it makes their conversations feel more layered.

3. People Trail Off... We don’t always finish our sentences. Sometimes we just... stop talking because we assume the other person gets what we’re trying to say. Use that in your dialogue! Let a sentence trail off into nothing. It adds realism and shows the comfort (or awkwardness) between characters.

4. Repeating Words Is Normal In real life, people repeat words when they’re excited, nervous, or trying to make a point. It’s not a sign of bad writing—it’s how we talk. Let your characters get a little repetitive now and then. It adds a rhythm to their speech that feels more genuine.

5. Fillers Are Your Friends People say "um," "uh," "like," "you know," all the time. Not every character needs to sound polished or poetic. Sprinkle in some filler words where it makes sense, especially if the character is nervous or thinking on their feet.

6. Not Everyone Speaks in Complete Sentences Sometimes, people just throw out fragments instead of complete sentences, especially when emotions are high. Short, choppy dialogue can convey tension or excitement. Instead of saying “I really think we need to talk about this,” try “We need to talk. Now.”

7. Body Language Is Part of the Conversation Real people don’t just communicate with words; they use facial expressions, gestures, and body language. When your characters are talking, think about what they’re doing—are they fidgeting? Smiling? Crossing their arms? Those little actions can add a lot of subtext to the dialogue without needing extra words.

8. Awkward Silences Are Golden People don’t talk non-stop. Sometimes, they stop mid-conversation to think, or because things just got weird. Don’t be afraid to add a beat of awkward silence, a long pause, or a meaningful look between characters. It can say more than words.

9. People Talk Over Themselves When They're Nervous When we’re anxious, we tend to talk too fast, go back to rephrase what we just said, or add unnecessary details. If your character’s nervous, let them ramble a bit or correct themselves. It’s a great way to show their internal state through dialogue.

10. Inside Jokes and Shared History Real people have history. Sometimes they reference something that happened off-page, or they share an inside joke only they get. This makes your dialogue feel lived-in and shows that your characters have a life beyond the scene. Throw in a callback to something earlier, or a joke only two characters understand.

11. No One Explains Everything People leave stuff out. We assume the person we’re talking to knows what we’re talking about, so we skip over background details. Instead of having your character explain everything for the reader’s benefit, let some things go unsaid. It’ll feel more natural—and trust your reader to keep up!

12. Characters Have Different Voices Real people don’t all talk the same way. Your characters shouldn’t either! Pay attention to their unique quirks—does one character use slang? Does another speak more formally? Maybe someone’s always cutting people off while another is super polite. Give them different voices and patterns of speech so their dialogue feels authentic to them.

13. People Change the Subject In real life, conversations don’t always stay on track. People get sidetracked, jump to random topics, or avoid certain subjects altogether. If your characters are uncomfortable or trying to dodge a question, let them awkwardly change the subject or ramble to fill the space.

14. Reactions Aren’t Always Immediate People don’t always respond right away. They pause, they think, they hesitate. Sometimes they don’t know what to say, and that delay can speak volumes. Give your characters a moment to process before they respond—it’ll make the conversation feel more natural.

Important note: Please don’t use all of these tips in one dialogue at once.

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maelancoli · 8 months ago

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Writing Intimacy

i often see writers sharing a sentiment of struggling with writing kiss scenes which honestly bleeds into other portrayals of physical intimacy. i see it a lot in modernized styles of writing popularized by the recent trend in publishing to encourage short, choppy sentences and few adverbs, even less descriptive language. this makes intimacy come across awkward, like someone writing a script or clumsy recounting of events rather than a beautiful paragraph of human connection.

or just plane horniness. but hey, horny doesn't have to be mutually exclusive with poetic or sensual.

shallow example: they kissed desperately, tongues swirling and she moaned. it made her feel warm inside.

in depth example: she reached for the other woman slowly and with a small measure of uncertainty. the moment her fingers brushed the sharp, soft jaw of her companion, eliza's hesitance slid away. the first kiss was gentle when she finally closed the distance between them. she pressed her lips lightly to gabriella's in silent exploration. a tender question. gabriella answered by meeting her kiss with a firmer one of her own. eliza felt the woman's fingers curling into her umber hair, fingernails scraping along her scalp. everything inside eliza relaxed and the nervousness uncoiled from her gut. a warm buzz of energy sunk through her flesh down to the very core of her soul. this was right. this was always where she needed to be.

the first complaint i see regards discomfort in writing a kiss, feeling like one is intruding on the characters. the only way to get around this is to practice. anything that makes you uncomfortable in writing is something you should explore. writing is at its best when we are pushing the envelope of our own comfort zones. if it feels cringy, if it feels too intimate, too weird, too intrusive, good. do it anyway! try different styles, practice it, think about which parts of it make you balk the most and then explore that, dissect it and dive into getting comfortable with the portrayal of human connection.

of course the biggest part comes to not knowing what to say other than "they kissed" or, of course, the tried and true "their lips crashed and their tongues battled for dominance" 😐. so this is my best advice: think beyond the mouth. okay, we know their mouths are mashing. but what are their hands doing? are they touching one another's hair? are they scratching or gripping desperately at one another? are they gliding their hands along each other's body or are they wrapping their arms tightly to hold each other close? do they sigh? do they groan? do they relax? do they tense? are they comfortable with each other or giddy and uncertain? is it a relief, or is it bringing more questions? is it building tension or finally breaking it?

get descriptive with the emotions. how is it making the main character/pov holder feel? how are they carrying those emotions in their body? how do they feel the desire in their body? desire is not just felt below the belt. it's in the gut, it's in the chest, it's in the flushing of cheeks, the chills beneath the skin, the goosebumps over the surface of the flesh. everyone has different pleasure zones. a kiss might not always lead desire for overtly sexual touches. a kiss might lead to the desire for an embrace. a kiss might lead to the impulse to bite or lick at other areas. a kiss could awaken desire to be caressed or caress the neck, the shoulder, the back, the arms etc. describe that desire, show those impulses of pleasure and affection.

of course there is the tactile. what does the love interest taste like? what do they smell like? how do they kiss? rough and greedy? slow and sensual? explorative and hesitant? expertly or clumsily? how does it feel to be kissed by them? how does it feel to kiss them?

i.e. examine who these individuals are, what their motives and feelings are within that moment, who they are together, what it looks like when these two individuals come together. a kiss is not about the mouth. it's about opening the door to vulnerability and desire in one's entire body and soul.

#writing help #writing tips #writing advice #how to write #on writing #fanfic advice #writing #creative writing #writing process #roleplay advice #rp advice #rp tips #*shrugs* twitter discourse brought me here

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kirkwall-age · 8 months ago

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#in the end of the conversation you can kinda wish howe luck in his future endeavors and last time I played cousland I did just that#and I found his reaction SO INTERESTING because obv I know what he's planning but he is caught so off-guard by cousland saying that#I wonder what the VA directions were for that line... (via @cantbearsedto)

I am happy to report that that whole conversation where you talk to him 1v1 is equally thorough and paranoid.

You can ask him 3 questions or wish him well, and I buried the lede at the bottom because every part of that conversation is equally as fascinating to me, personally:

If asked about the Orlesian War:

Howe: We fought together under King Maric, when he drove the Orlesians out of Ferelden.

Forceful. This was the best time in his life.

Howe: Heady times. The years since have not held the same promise.

Switching from nostalgia to a little bitter. "Time takes me farther from glory. I'm getting a little tired of that."

Howe: It's not something a youth would understand. It will be good to ride beside your father again.

Very small hint of resentment on "beside". Like he's been slightly below since losing favor of the old king. "The new campaign offers a chance at lost glory."

Howe: Your father hasn't spoken of our time with him? That man took care of his friends. As they say, he was large as life and twice as tall! (Laughs)

Genuine fondness. "Your father doesn't long for that time like I do. *That* king let me ride his coattails, and I loved it."

If asked a follow-up question about Thomas/Delilah:

Howe: The topic has come up from time to time. The young and their infatuations.

Vague dismissal with a wave of a hand. "I raised the topic to distract you and curry favor. I wasn't expecting to seriously explain it."

Howe: To be honest, I have no expectations. And your father seems determined to let you find your own way.

Honest disapproval under proper noble discourse/disguise. "If I give real thought to you dating my child, I disapprove. I don't like how you were raised."

Howe: If something did happen… well, we'd address it as befits a family of our stature.

Dismissive. Knowing that "Something *won't* happen. And you don't know it, but the statue of *my* family is about to change for the better."

If asked about the delay of his troops:

Howe: Poor weather, I believe. Their progress has been slow, but it's nothing you need worry about.

Vague dismissal. "They are delayed by an excuse I'd rather not get into."

Cousland: You told my father the delay was your fault. Howe: In a manner of speaking. If I had reinforced our border levies earlier, my troops could have left before the rains.

A little impatient. The player is asking too many specific questions. He is unsure of your motives. "My story is solid and well-rehearsed but your questions are making me suspicious."

Howe: I confess, my confidence in your father allowed me some complacency. I guess that makes it as much his fault.

Turning suspicion into praise to redirect. "Anything unusual is only because your father is so great. Let's all laugh about it!"

AND FINALLY. If Cousland says: "I just want to wish you well, Arl Howe."

Howe: I… thank you. That is… quite unnecessary.

Unused to unmotivated well-wishing. "I only praise when it gets me something. So I'm suspicious of others who praise me out of the blue."

Honestly. What a villain. What a guy.

exploring Origins Toolset (a gift that keeps on giving) and the V.A. directions for Arl Howe are FASCINATING. he has a secondary thought appended to every line of dialogue during the opening scene of Human Noble Origin -- and the insight into his psyche is somehow even more fucked-up than I thought

Bryce: I'm sorry pup; I didn't see you there. Howe, you remember my daughter? Howe: I see she's become a lovely young woman. Pleased to see you again, my dear.

Friendly, but hollow. "Here's the necessary exchange of pleasantries nobles must go through. I'm kind of preoccuppied with making sure your father is on track for my secret plan."

Cousland: Is your family here, Arl Howe? Howe: Oh no, I left them in Amaranthine, well away from the fighting in the south. They do send their best wishes.

Distracted. "I left them well out of harm's way. Though I don't want you to know harm is coming."

Howe: My son Thomas asked after you. Perhaps I should bring him with me next time.

Gauging the player's reaction. "My son wants to marry you. I don't approve, but mentioning it may get you to trust me."

Cousland (version 1): To what end? Howe: Ha! "To what end", she says! So glib, too. She's just like her mother when she talks like that.

Friendly, slightly menacing undertone. "You don't fool me, girl. You're playing dumb, but you're smarter than your reply suggests. I won't underestimate anyone in your family."

Cousland (version 2): ...Thomas is a few years younger than I am. Howe: As you get older, those years make less difference. A lesson often hard won.

Elsewhere. "It doesn't matter how old you are. You won't be getting any older."

THIS IS CRAZY. THIS IS A CRAZY THING TO SAY. OR THINK SECRETLY AS YOU'RE EXCHANGING PLEASANTRIES

#i always did think he sounded thrown in that response #but also knowing how much pleasure he takes in the whole betrayal/usurping #it didn't make sense if one last-minute politeness was enough to cause a twinge of doubt or discomfort #that's simply not his brand #the answer being that he is thrown simply because in all his wily social platitudes --#-- he doesn't have a SCRIPT pre-planned for genuine niceness (instead of polite insincerity)#that DOES track for me #also i fucking love that he is >:| about being asked questions too close to his plan and redirects it into praise and boot-licking #truly his brain is so slippery and weird #tag: personal #pc: cousland

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my-castles-crumbling · 4 months ago

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chapter - february 5 - jegulus - @taylorswiftmicrofic - word count: 315

Regulus had been acting weird for days.

Of course, he was always a bit weird, but not in the normal way James adored. No, he seemed…agitated. Nervous. More on-edge and grumpy than usual.

When James asked, the younger boy refused to entertain the idea that anything was wrong. He rolled his eyes and told James to be quiet, and cuddled back into his arms. But James was fluent enough in Regulus-speak to know that that was simply not true.

But he was also smart enough not to push.

So he waited and reminded his boyfriend that he cared and he was there for him whenever he needed to talk. And one day, he was rewarded with a very anxious and angry-looking Regulus who approached him and slammed a book down on the table.

“What’s this, love?” he asked lightly, blinking and deciding not to point out that the book had nearly broken his finger, which was only about two centimeters away.

“Chapter twelve,” Regulus said firmly, still standing above him.

James tilted his head. “You want me to read it?”

“Yes,” Regulus snapped, and turned without another word, nearly sprinting away.

Completely flummoxed, James turned to the chapter in question. He had no clue why Regulus wanted him to read this book….it seemed like some sort of old romance novel. But he also was curious enough to find out.

When he got to the right page, his eyes found a phrase that was underlined several times, with little stars next to it and the word James scrawled in a familiar script. It said:

“....I loved him…I was terrified to love him, and yet it felt easier and more certain than breathing. But telling him this simple, petrifying fact seemed impossible.”

Staring at the page, James read and re-read the line several time before exhaling and beaming, a little laugh bubbling out of his mouth. Oh.

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whytheylosttheirminds · 8 months ago

Text

Don't Call Me Kid - Chapter 4

(Rafe Cameron x Reader, series, 6.6k words)

series summary: You'd had a crush on Rafe Cameron since you were six years old, but he friend zoned you at every turn. Once shy and insecure, you found new confidence and self-love after high school. When your high school friends go on a reunion beach trip, Rafe finally sees what he lost, but he isn't going to give you up without a fight.

tropes: unrequited crush, glow up, she fell first/he fell harder

series content: some angst, eventual fluff, slow burn, tomfoolery and shenanigans, drinking, fem!reader has occasional insecurity and body image issues

additional chapter cw: suggestive language/acts, mature readers only please

⇢ series masterlist

Rafe lifted his fist to knock on your door.

But before he could bring his knuckles to the wood, he froze, suddenly panicked that he had no idea what he was going to say when you appeared behind it. He stepped back, crinkling the package of the candy in his hands.

“Hey, so,” he whispered, practicing to himself. “I’m sorry if that was weird. Not weird. Sorry if that was uncomfortable? I don’t know why I’m saying sorry. Hey, so, Kelce is a dick, right? Maybe I should say sorry. Fuck…”

As he paced back and forth, the floor creaked below him. He was too preoccupied with trying to find the right words to notice he was making noise. He didn’t get a chance to finish his little script, though, because you opened the door.

He froze mid-sentence, eyes wide as he looked at you, realizing you clearly heard him talking to himself. Fuck, that’s embarassing. Before he could spiral about how much you had heard, he noticed the way your nose was red at the end, eyes glossy, and cheeks stained with black smudges. You had been really crying.

“Are you okay?” He asked quietly, struck with the urge to reach out and wipe the water from your face.

“What do you want, Rafe?” You sniffled.

“I wanted to…I was…” Rafe was lost, any words he had planned completely left him at the gut wrenching sight of your tears.

He shuffled on his feet a little as you watched him with an unforgiving glare. He had to come up with something.

He extended the candy to you, “...bringing you this.”

“Thanks but that beer made me sick, I’m not really in a snacky mood,” you snipped.

He felt like a kitten coming to his owner with a present, only to be scolded for bringing a dead bird into the house.

“Right,” he tried to recover. “I just thought maybe you’d want to keep them up here so no one takes them.”

You sighed heavily as you quickly took the candy from him, no lingering graze of your hands like you’d done so many times before the night had taken this turn for the worse.

“Okay,” he exhales. “I didn’t come up here to give you the candy.”

“What did you come up here for then?” You huffed.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he admitted.

You turned from him, exasperated, and set the candy on the vanity across the room. He was tempted to follow you through the door frame, but he had the keen sense that he shouldn't push it, so he froze, feet inches from the threshold but not going over.

“And why wouldn’t I be okay?” You questioned, your back turned to him as you pulled a set of pajamas out of the top drawer, he swallowed any hope of seeing you change into them, knowing it was a delusional thought.

“Because of what Kelce said,” He brought his thumbnail up to his eyebrow, scratching a non-existent itch, desperate for something to do with his hands.

You turned quickly on your heel to face him, hands on your hips. The sudden shift in your features, from indifference to indignance, made him take a step back.

“What, did he say something?” You pressed.

“About how you, y’know used to-”

“Rafe, I’m fine,” you cut him off, rubbing the backs of your hands across your cheeks to get some of the smeared makeup off.

Even though you always knew deep in your gut that he knew how you used to feel about him, the thought of him actually saying it out loud as you stood in front of him with tear stained cheeks was unbearable to you.

“But you’re crying,” he uttered, eyebrows bunched in concern. “I don’t want you to be alone, crying in your room all night.”

You stepped closer to him, and his heart leapt. Maybe you would invite him in, let him hold you until you felt better. But then, as quickly as it had risen, his heart fell again. You placed your hand on the door handle and glared at him.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

With a definitive click, you closed the door in his face.

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The patter of thick rain drops against your window is what finally roused you from your long sleep. You’d fallen asleep crying into your pillow, an old hobby you hadn’t practiced in years. The light coming through the window was dim, making you assume it was early morning, but when you checked your phone your eyes went wide at the time: 12:04pm.

You swung your legs over the bed with a groan, rising to look out the window. The sky was dark and angry, high waves foaming and crashing in the distance, a storm raging. The rain was so heavy the window was straining to keep it out.

When you opened your bedroom door, you nearly stepped on the tray of food that was sitting outside it. You leaned down and picked up the tray of scrambled eggs, toast and orange juice, smiling at the little note in your sister’s handwriting: “I’m so glad you’re here, we’re downstairs when you’re ready.” She signed it with a little heart.

After eating the breakfast in your bed, you steeled yourself to finally make your appearance downstairs. You were grateful that everyone had let you sleep in, but wondered if the delay in coming downstairs would only remind them of the dramatic way your night ended.

You placed your dishes in the kitchen sink, looking out at the backyard you’d fled so abruptly the night before. It was quite a different scene than the one you’d left, the pouring rain filling the porch with puddles, chairs strewn about from the heavy wind. You let last night play through your mind like a movie; Carter revealing your most scandalous moment during never have I ever, Tom’s big arms on either side of you as he flirted, Rafe’s hands in yours as you celebrated your beer pong dominance, Kelce’s words bringing all your fun to a screeching halt.

“No! Don’t shoot!”

Yells from the large den adjacent to the kitchen pulled you from your thoughts. You padded quickly into the room to find the source of the commotion.

“That guy was on our team!” Kelce yelled again, ripping a video game controller from Maddie’s hands.

Maddie just laughed at his frustration, “well I didn’t like him so I killed him.”

“That’s not how the game works, Mads,” Kelce scolded.

“Well that’s how I play,” she shrugged, leaning back on the couch.

Several people were piled onto the oversized sectional sofa. Carter was sitting up on the cushion with her legs criss-crossed, Topper on the floor in front of her while she put little braids in his hair. Tom and Kelce sat on the other side of Maddie, eyes locked on the small TV screen as their fingers rapidly tapped on the controller buttons, deeply invested in the game.

In the far corner sat Rafe, reading something on his phone with a concerned look on his face.

“Love the hair, Topper,” you said from behind the couch.

Everyone’s eyes shot to you, except for Rafe, who stayed caught up in whatever was on his screen. You found his indifference to your arrival annoying, but also intriguing, wondering what had captured his attention so fully.

“You’re up!” Carter exclaimed, accidentally pulling Topper’s hair as she turned to you, making him wince.

“I’ve been up for a while, just needed some quiet time,” you smiled at her. “Thank you for breakfast.”

“Actually, that was all Kelce,” she informed you with a knowing smirk.

“Oh really?” You said, raising your eyebrows at Kelce.

He paused the video game and stood from the couch.

“Wait!” Kelce said. “I have one more thing!”

He ran out of the room and you looked back at Carter with a smirk.

“You better not let him off the hook too easily,” Carter encouraged you.

“Don’t worry, I plan to mess with him a little,” you smiled at her conspiratorially. “Everyone just act cool.”

They all nodded at you, shifting when Kelce re-entered the room. Their attempted acting skills were adorably terrible, pretending to ignore you and Kelce, suddenly very invested in their own hands and the stains on the couch. All but Rafe, who seemed genuinely disinterested in the whole thing, eyes still glued to his phone.

Kelce approached you with his hands behind his back, looking bashful. He revealed his present with a proud flair.

It was a bouquet of wilting flowers, and a couple of weeds, he had clearly pulled from the front yard. You smiled at the sad, but sweet, present.

“I picked them this morning,” he said proudly.

You didn’t take them from him just yet, tightening your lips to hide your smile so he’d think you were still mad at him.

“I’m sorry for being a dick,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that thing about-”

“It’s okay Kelce,” you cut him off before he could elaborate further. “What you said…you were right.”

These words finally pulled Rafe from his phone, head snapping towards you in surprise. The rest of the group struggled to maintain their little charade of indifference, the air in the room shifting as they all silently met eyes, wondering where you were going with this.

“I did stay at those parties for a boy,” you admitted to Kelce.

Carter coughed to disguise a laugh, figuring out your game before anyone else.

“You did?” Kelce asked.

You stepped closer to him, placing your hand on his arm. His eyes widened and he swallowed heavily.

“For you Kelce,” you whispered. “It’s always been you.”

Topper, Maddie, and Tom seemed to finally catch up with your plan as they tried to stifle their own laughter. Kelce had exactly the dumbstruck reaction you were hoping for, looking alarmed, stammering for words like an idiot.

“Me? You liked me?” He croaked, almost too stunned to speak.

You couldn’t hold it back any longer, his face looked so pathetically shocked you had to laugh. As soon as you cracked a smile, the group took it as a sign they could laugh now too, breaking into a round of giggles at Kelce’s expense. Even Rafe was smirking, looking back to his phone, but not before letting out a soft chuckle.

Kelce looked around helplessly, catching on painfully slowly.

“C’mon man,” he said when it finally dawned on him that you were kidding. “You really had me going there, I'm not gonna lie.”

You took the flowers from him finally, patting his cheek reassuringly.

“I can’t stay mad at you, Kelcey,” you reassured him.

“You forgive me then?” He asked hopefully.

“As long as you promise never to play beer pong again,” you countered, handing him back the flowers. “And you go put these back outside, there’s bugs in them.”

He took the bouquet from you with a dutiful nod and made his way to the front door.

“You gonna forgive Sabrina, too?” Carter questioned.

“No,” you scoffed, settling on the couch next to her. “She can rot.”

“You’re fun,” Maddie giggled. “Who knew you were so fun?”

I did, Rafe thought.

“I did,” Carter said.

The wind kicked up outside the tall windows, a loud clap of thunder causing you to jump in your seat.

“Y’all think I’m gonna be able to work on my tan today?” Tom quipped, an attempt to ease your nerves.

“I don’t think you need it,” you flirted with him, admiring the dimples in his cheeks as he smiled back at you.

Rafe shifted uncomfortably in his seat, finally putting his phone down and sticking it in his pocket.

“What are we gonna do today, though?” Maddie asked.

“I think you’re looking at it,” Topper spread his arms to gesture to the room.

“Good thing you’re so good at this game,” Kelce teased her, re-entering the room and jumping over the couch, making Carter bounce and lose her grip on the braid she had been carefully sowing into Topper’s hair.

“Dammit, Kelce!” She scolded. “We’ve been stuck inside for half a day and I’m already annoyed with you.”

“We could go see a movie,” you suggested hopefully, the idea of a calm afternoon in a dark theater with a big bucket of popcorn exciting you.

“No can do,” Topper explained. “The road is closed because of the flooding, we’re stuck here for the day. Jack and Sabrina went out for breakfast and they can’t even get back into the neighborhood.”

“Oh, okay” you frowned, bummed that your plan was foiled, but not that Sabrina had struck such bad luck.

Rafe didn’t miss the way your lips curved down with disappointment.

After leaving your room last night, he’d stayed awake for hours, staring at the unfinished basement ceiling trying desperately to think of a way to get back in your good graces. The finality with which you’d shut your door on him made his stomach churn, wondering if he’d finally messed things up with you for good. But it was only your third day here, and he was a gamer; he didn’t quit and he didn’t lose. He decided he would take any opening he could get, and this seemed like a good place to start.

“We could watch a movie here,” he recommended. “We’ll make some popcorn and have our own theater.”

You looked at him for the first time since last night, surprised he was speaking to you, and even more surprised he was being so positive and helpful.

“Can we do it right now? I hate this game,” Maddie complained.

“I’d be down,” Tom agreed.

“Oh, uh,” Rafe sat up, catching Topper’s eye. “I have that thing I gotta do.”

Topper nodded knowingly, “yeah, we should wait until it gets dark anyway,” he agreed, giving Rafe an out.

You were dying to know what they were referring to, what possible responsibility could be tying Rafe down when he’d be stuck in a vacation home all day, but you feigned disinterest.

It was decided, you’d all meet back here at dusk for your movie night. You had the perfect excuse to finally get some alone time, assuring Carter you were fine before going back to your room, slipping under the cool covers with a smile and pulling out the book you still hadn’t had time to start.

It was such a pleasant afternoon until the plot of your book started to feel a little too familiar for your comfort. A love triangle between the shy, bookworm protagonist, a sweet, unassuming brunette, and a complicated, brooding blond. You finally shut the book about a hundred pages in, when the blond character, who was continuously breaking the protagonist’s heart, stood her up for a date. You sighed and threw the book back into your suitcase, adding it to your DNF list on Goodreads.

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Carter was sitting on the counter, swinging her legs happily as Topper stood at the stove and added spices to the soup he was making. You stood at the bottom of the stairs for a minute, watching them as long as you could before they noticed your presence. It was a rare moment of calm between them, no arguments or teasing. Topper blew on a spoonful of his soup before lifting it to Carter’s lips. She smiled at him affectionately as he thumbed the corner of her mouth, catching the little drop of soup that had spilled off the spoon.

Your heart warmed at your sister’s smile. She was not a relationship girl, or so she always swore. But you knew her feelings for Topper went far beyond a penchant for messing with him. You were struck with sadness that she would be leaving so soon, studying abroad in the UK to get her masters. Maybe you should’ve spent the afternoon with her, instead of a book you hated.

The door to the basement creaked open, and Rafe stepped out, looking grumpy as he unknowingly interrupted the sweet moment in the kitchen.

Carter leaned away from Topper when she noticed Rafe, and finally saw you. You spotted the way Topper’s face fell a little as she pulled away.

“Needs salt,” she teased him.

“Yes chef,” he smiled back, though there was a hint of resentment in his tone.

Carter hopped down off the counter and walked over to you, wrapping her arm around you like you hadn’t seen each other in years. You squeezed her affectionately, hoping she could feel the love you had for her in your touch.

She pulled away, eyeing Rafe. He had bags under his eyes and he looked worn out.

“Where have you been all day?” Carter asked him.

“Just had to take care of a few things,” he ran his hands through his hair, which it appeared he had been doing a lot based on the way it was sticking up at different angles.

As he brought his hands back to his side, you caught a quick glimpse of the pen ink that was smeared on his fingers, only adding to the mystery of what “things” he was taking care of.

You were going to teasingly ask him if he was down there writing the great American novel, but before you could, the large french doors that lead to the den swung open dramatically, Tom standing behind them with a big grin on his face.

“All ready!” He announced it to the group.

“What’s ready?” You asked, an amused smirk at his theatrics.

“Come see for yourself,” he winked at you.

You followed him curiously into the den, the rest of the group trailing behind. Your jaw dropped when you took it all in. He had transformed the big den, setting up a large projector and screen, stringing little fairy lights from the ceiling and filling the side tables with popcorn, candy, and a variety of snacks. The room even smelled good, Tom having lit some candles, and with the rain still coming down outside, the cozy vibes were off the charts.

“You did all this?” You gushed.

“Well you seemed bummed that we couldn’t go to the theater,” Tom remarked. “So I brought the theater to you!”

Thinking that might just be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to you, you gave Tom a big, grateful smile. Rafe muttered words under his breath that you couldn’t quite make out but sounded something like “you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“Woah, where’d you find the projector?” Kelce asked.

“They said it was in the attic,” Tom pointed out. “On the Airbnb listing.”

You didn’t understand why, but something about Tom being the only one to actually read the whole listing and pay attention to the details was attractive. You suddenly wished there weren’t five other people in the room with you and him.

“The only thing I haven’t done is pick the movie,” Tom admitted.

The group started chattering all at once, throwing out suggestions and arguing over each other’s taste in movies. After a few chaotic moments, Tom mentioned the name of a horror movie that had come out recently, and while the rest of the room chimed in with “ohhh yes” and “I’ve wanted to see that one,” your stomach dropped. You hated scary movies, you always had. Since you were a kid, you felt anything you watched or read very deeply, so when a movie was dark, it affected you emotionally.

Feeling helpless, your eyes inadvertently met Rafe’s. He immediately picked up on the way you were chewing your lip, afraid to protest to what everyone else clearly wanted.

Shit that’s right, he thought, she hates scary movies.

Plus, he knew you’d be teased for saying something, this group was fun but they weren’t known for their sensitivity. Your eyes dropped to the floor in acceptance, all of your excitement over the home theater fading as you settled in for an unpleasant evening. Rafe hated the way you were forced to resign to being unhappy for everyone else’s sake.

“Nah, I don’t fuck with horror movies,” he blurted out impulsively.

All eyes shot to him, most people laughing in assumption he was making a joke. When he didn’t laugh back, but clenched his jaw and stared them down, they fell silent.

“Bro, since when?” Topper asked hesitantly.

“Since forever,” Rafe doubled down.

“You scared, Cameron?” Kelce teased.

“So what if I am?” Rafe bit back, daring him to keep going.

“Hey man, that’s cool,” Tom assured him. “It’s not for everybody. We can just watch something else.”

It was like your heart was strung up with the fairy lights above you, Rafe and Tom grabbing either end of the cord and playing tug-of-war. Just when Tom did something so sweet you thought you might kiss him right here in front of everyone, Rafe jumped in to rescue you from ridicule, proving he remembered intimate details about you in the process, making your heart ache for him. Then Tom said something kind, and you were right back where you started. This wasn’t getting any easier.

Rafe could see the way your eyes flicked between him and Tom, he knew he needed to step it up even more. He rounded the couch and approached Tom’s laptop, which was plugged into the projector. He typed something into the streaming site that was pulled up and the projector whirred to life, the screen illuminating the room as the opening credits of a movie began.

It was your favorite movie of all time. Your heart swelled at the opening song that you’d know anywhere, this having been your comfort film since you were a kid. Rafe stared right at you as the rest of the group settled on the couch, no one wanting to argue with his choice. Your eyes went soft as you looked back at him, mouthing a silent thank you, just like you had done by the fire last night. You were astonished that he remembered how much you loved this movie.

“Perfect, I love this movie!” Tom exclaimed, pulling your gaze from Rafe.

Of course he does, you thought tenderly, your crush on Tom intensifying.

Of course he does, Rafe thought resentfully, his vexation with Tom boiling his blood.

As everyone took their seats, you hung back for a moment, taking in the whole scene and trying to clear your head. By the time your feet caught up with your brain, there was only one spot left on the big couch.

Carter and Topper settled in on the chaise, shamelessly cuddling up almost immediately. Kelce and Maddie sat next to them, sharing a bowl of popcorn. Then it was Tom, an empty spot, and Rafe. You considered sitting on the floor.

Standing between them, both boys looked up at you expectantly, shifting away from each other to make more space for you, both hopeful you’d sit a little closer to them than the other. You thought of the protagonist from the book you were reading, wishing you could take her out for a drink.

Finally, you took your seat, crossing your legs and placing your hands in your lap. You turned and looked at Carter, who was smiling back at you sympathetically. She looked like she was about to get up from the comfort of Topper’s arms, but you didn’t want to interrupt their time together, so you waved her off and settled back on the couch to prove you were fine.

The movie began, roaring through the speakers Tom had set up, and you were quickly distracted by the familiar sights and sounds of your favorite film.

Rafe’s eyes flicked over to you every so often, melting at the cute way you were mouthing the lines along with the actors, laughing at funny scenes even though you’d seen them a million times. He was trying to respect your space, but eventually he needed to stretch out his long legs, spreading them so his knee was almost knocking into yours. He wouldn’t touch you though, no matter how much he wanted to. It seemed maybe he had almost secured your forgiveness and he wasn’t about to push his luck.

Tom wasn’t in such a difficult position though, his arm fearlessly brushing against yours as he reached for a bowl of popcorn and offered you some.

“Thank you,” you said sweetly.

“Do you like this movie?” He whispered, leaning in a bit too close for Rafe’s comfort.

“It’s my all-time favorite,” you told him.

“I’m glad we picked it then.”

We? Rafe seethed. This whole movie night was his idea in the first place, and once again, here was Casanova sweeping in and stealing away your attention.

Rafe thought he couldn’t hate him more, and then Tom put his arm around you.

Anything, he would’ve given anything, done anything, to hear you tell Tom to fuck off. But you didn’t. You blushed and shifted a bit, nestling into Tom’s side and tucking your legs under you.

Your feet, covered in pink fuzzy socks, were just inches from Rafe’s leg, tormenting him. They nudged him every so often when you laughed at the film or leaned in to whisper something to Tom. He got excited for just a moment the first time you touched him, but his heart cracked when it dawned on him that while you were touching him by accident, you were touching Tom on purpose.

Even though he was tempted to storm out, your obvious rejection of him nearly unbearable, he forced himself to play it cool and stay through to the end credits.

The screen faded to black, and everyone stirred and stretched. You sat up from Tom’s side and looked over to your sister, surprised she hadn’t pulled out her phone and texted you something cheeky about him during the movie, but quickly realized it was because she had fallen asleep. Her hair was messy in her face as little snores escaped her lips. The only person looking at her with more affection than you was Topper, who scooped her up in his arms with ease and a peck on the cheek, and carried her to bed.

“Okay, so that was the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” Maddie said as she and Kelce followed them out of the room.

Rafe sighed as he saw the mess that had been left behind, kneeling down to sweep up the popcorn Kelce had spilled on the floor. He felt the small window of hope that he’d somehow reconnect with you today close as you exited the room.

Feeling just as tired as Carter looked and eager to crawl into bed, you made your way toward the stairs. Tom caught up with you before you took the first step, saying your name softly to get your attention.

“I had a really good time with you tonight,” he said when you turned.

“Me too,” you told him, blushing bashfully. “Though I don’t think anyone had quite as good a time as Carter.”

“You’re probably right.” He had gotten closer, leaning towards you as he said it, close enough that you could feel his breath on your skin, “the night’s not over yet, though.”

Heat swept across your cheeks and down your back as your whole body blushed. You had really enjoyed your time on the couch snuggled up next to him, but you were a notoriously slow mover when it came to new guys. You thought you might kiss him goodbye at the end of the week, maybe get his number, but that was as far as your imagination had wandered. You’d hooked up with guys at school, and you were certainly more confident with every year that passed, but you had accepted about yourself that you would always be a little slower than other girls, and that was okay with you.

“It’s not?” You asked, hating the shaky nervousness in your voice.

“Maybe I could carry you up to your room, too,” he propositioned.

With that suggestion, he leaned in to kiss you. Your whole body went numb and a nervous hum escaped your throat. You flinched slightly right before his lips met yours, signaling him to pause.

“Sorry,” you mumbled as he pulled back.

“Is something wrong?” He asked, brows furrowed.

“It’s just, a little fast,” you explained. “I’m really enjoying getting to know you, though. I tend to move slow.”

“We don’t have to do anything,” he continued. “Maybe I could just crash in your room? I’m sharing with Kelce and he snores.”

“The couch is pretty comfortable, you could sleep there,” you stepped away from him a bit, voice firmer.

“Ah, but that’s not as fun,” he flirted again, not letting up.

“It’s not gonna happen tonight,” you told him definitively. “We can definitely hang out tomorrow, though.”

He eyed you for a second, and your skin crawled with the feeling you were being studied.

“Sure,” he muttered, the softness you usually saw in his eyes was nowhere to be found. “Night.”

As he shuffled up the stairs without another glance to you, you saw that Rafe had been standing in the doorway of the den, for how long you weren’t sure. His hands were full of dirty dishes as he eyed you anxiously.

“All good?” He questioned.

You wanted to put up a front, make a joke to wipe the protective, caring look off of Rafe’s face, but your spirit was a bit shaken, and if you were being honest, you were just glad not to be alone.

Instead of answering, you reached out, took some of the dishes from his hands and walked them to the kitchen sink. Your wordlessness was an indication that you didn’t want to talk about it any further, so he didn’t push.

Rafe washed and you dried, completely silent as you did the dishes together. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, though, just an understanding between you that nothing more needed to be said tonight. You were immensely grateful to have something to do with your hands, a task to focus on as you recovered from the upsetting interaction you’d had with Tom.

Once Rafe handed you the last bowl, he bid you goodnight quietly and descended the stairs to his room. You dried the bowl and reached it toward the high cabinet it belonged in, but nearly dropped when you heard a loud “fuck!” come from the basement.

You set the dish down carefully before hurrying down the stairs towards the sound of Rafe’s distress.

“What’s wrong?” You asked breathlessly as you descended the creaking steps.

Rafe stepped back to show you the cause of his outcry. Sometime in the evening a leak had sprung from the edge of the basement ceiling, running down the wall and right onto his bed. The rain had stopped about an hour ago, and though it didn’t appear the water was flowing in anymore, the damage was done.

“Fuck,” you echoed him.

Rafe moved his luggage and backpack to the stairs to get them off the ground, and pulled the bed away from the wall.

“I’ll just sleep with my head on the other end of the bed,” he sighed.

“Rafe, you can’t sleep down here,” you countered. “I found some extra blankets and pillows in my closet, I’ll get them for you and you can crash on the couch.”

He nodded in agreement, “thanks.”

Rafe followed you up to your room, stopping at the threshold of your door, just like he had last night. You smiled to yourself at the respectfulness of the action. Though it proved to be unsustainable when you slid open your closet door and tried to get the blanket and pillow stored on the top shelf, unable to reach it even when you jumped.

“Can you help me?” You sighed, indirectly inviting him in.

Rafe smirked as he approached, barely having to stretch to reach the bedding. Your throat bobbed as you watched him, his frame so long and lean it towered over you.

“Thanks for these,” he looked down at you, holding the pillow and blanket to his chest with crossed arms.

“Least I could do,” you smiled. “After you saved me again.”

Rafe furrowed his brows quizzically.

“You hate horror movies, huh?” You quirked your eyebrows.

“Oh,” he mumbled, realization sweeping across his face. “No. But you do.”

“And you just really wanted to watch that particular movie instead?”

“No. But you did.”

The room suddenly felt too hot, as you bantered, your voices dropped lower, and so did Rafe’s eyes, landing on your lips.

Not sure you could stand this close to him much longer without making a decision you might regret, you stepped away and over to your vanity. You unclasped your necklace and started removing your rings, preparing to begin your nighttime routine. You caught Rafe’s eyes in the mirror as he watched you take your hair out of its ponytail, letting it fall around your face in a soft curtain.

Rafe cleared his throat and looked down, digging his foot into your rug. You swore you caught a blush kiss the apples of his cheeks.

“Well what are you doin’ right now? Wanna hang out?” He croaked.

You smiled at his desperate attempt to keep the conversation going. It was reminiscent of the way you used to search your mind for more questions to ask to keep him on the phone, or pretend you needed to run errands so he’d be in your car longer. Now, here he was, looking at you with big, hopeful eyes, completely desperate. The power shift was electrifying, a newfound dominance rushed through you. You had him right where you wanted, and you couldn’t help but milk it.

“I’m feeling pretty tired.” You turned to him and faked a yawn, stretching your arms up, the bottom of your t-shirt rising to reveal just a sliver of skin, his eyes catching it immediately. “I think I’m just gonna get ready for bed now.”

He stood across the dimly lit room, every muscle in his body fighting against his attempt to stay in place. You held back a smug smile when you saw he was actually making tight fists to keep from reaching his hands toward you.

This would be all he would ever get, he thought. Just these little moments when his eyes caught slivers of your perfect skin. The tops of your sun kissed shoulders in your swimsuit. The brief hint of a dimple on your lower back when you bent to get a beer from the cooler. The curve of your hips in the tight jeans you wore today.

If this was all he’d get, that would be okay. He’d collect the memories of these moments like rare coins, only to be pulled out on special occasions. If these teases of what it might be like to be with you for real were all you’d ever give him, he’d make do.

And just as he made himself that promise, you reached down and pulled at the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head in one motion, tossing it to the floor.

You were wearing a black bra with a little white bow right where the cups met between your breasts, and he could see the top of your black lace panties barely peeking out of the waistband of your jeans.

Rafe’s face flushed and his shoulders tensed as he looked you up and down, eyes wide with surprise at how bold you were being. His large body cast a long shadow on the wall, but something about the desperation on his face made him seem so small, so vulnerable. The rush of power felt unbelievable and you wondered how far you could push him before he snapped.

Without breaking the heated eye contact between you, you slowly unbuttoned your jeans and dipped your thumbs under the waistband, pulling them down and over your feet.

“Wh-What are you doing?” Rafe finally choked out, unable to stay silent any longer.

“I’m getting ready for bed,” you shrugged innocently. “And you’re getting ready to leave.”

Your words were pushing him out, but your actions were freezing him in place. He had no idea what you really wanted from him, but he knew exactly what he wanted from you.

Before he could ask if you really wanted him to leave, you pulled back the covers of your bed and climbed in. Once under the sheets, the white linen covering you up to your shoulders, you shuffled a bit, making the blanket rustle with your movement. His brows furrowed in confusion, unsure what you were doing now. Then, your hand reached back out from under the covers and dropped your bra to the floor. More shuffling, and your panties followed, now only the plush duvet and silky sheets stood between Rafe and your completely bare body. Rafe cleared his throat as he felt himself straining against his board shorts.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, the blankets sliding slightly, stopping right before exposing your chest to him. He swallowed hard.

You looked at him, your face unassuming, like this was the most normal thing in the world. The way you were looking at him, he knew he would do anything you told him to, even if that meant you really were asking him to leave. He prayed to whatever god made the perfect creature in front of him that you’d ask him to stay. But you didn’t.

“Hit the lights on your way out?” You said, before laying back and letting your hair fan out over the pillows. You closed your eyes and moaned softly as you sunk into the plush bed.

He bit his lip as he watched you get comfortable, his heart pounding so hard he was sure you could hear it.

“Rafe?” you whispered, eyes still closed.

“Y-yeah?” He stammered.

“Goodnight,” you smiled, putting an end to any hope he had for an invitation to join you in the California King.

He sighed in defeat, “goodnight.”

With that, he walked toward the door, giving himself one last look at you, angelic and at peace in your pre-sleep. He hit the light switch and pulled the door closed softly behind him.

Rafe leaned against the door, one hand over his chest to feel his spiked heart rate, and one still clutching the door handle, unable to fully let go of it, of you. He felt lightheaded, the realization of how badly he wanted you washing over him, leaving him breathless. Why had he been such a dumbass in high school? He thought ruefully of that day senior year. If he had done just one thing differently, maybe he would be in bed next to you right now.

The thought of pulling your soft body into his, holding you under those cool sheets, nuzzling his head into your hair and inhaling the scent of you until you both fall into blissful sleep…he couldn’t remember ever wanting anything as bad as that. His want, his need, for you was too much to bear.

He couldn’t bring himself to walk downstairs, and as much as he was dying to, he couldn't bring himself to go back into the room and risk your true rejection. As he toiled over his lack of choices, he sank to the floor, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He knew it was pathetic, sitting outside your door like a stray cat. He told himself he’d sit here for just five more minutes, enough time to collect his dignity.

He fell asleep on the floor thinking about the way your hair smells.

(chapter 5: part one)

a/n: thank you thank you thank you thank you for the support on this story! thank you to this anon for the move night idea which really helped solve some plot issues I was having I appreciate you!! in the original draft of this chapter, Tom suggested they watch Hellraiser 2022...is that too meta?

please note, the taglist for this series is currently closed. For updates, follow @whytheylosttheirminds-works and turn on notifs 💕

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edenarchives · 26 days ago

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♯┆𝐅𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐓! 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟑.ᐟ — 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐆𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Life after the industry is sweet—until Bakugo gets an offer to go back. When he hesitates, you walk out… carrying a secret that changes everything.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: angst with a happy ending, implied past sex work, unplanned pregnancy, emotional hurt/comfort, soft makeup sex, begging, praise, consent-focused, creampie, reader throws up (morning sickness), crying, reader leaves briefly, Bakugo is a dumb boy who learns, extremely soft post-fight intimacy

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 𝟗.𝟑𝐤

PART TWO

You weren’t sure what life would feel like after walking away from everything—the lights, the cameras, the noise. But somehow, it just… slowed down. In the best way.

You and Bakugo had been out of the industry for a few months now. No more early call times. No more scripts. No more wiping off fake sweat between takes or answering awkward fan questions about chemistry that wasn’t real.

This was real.

Waking up in the same bed every morning. Grocery shopping at weird hours because you forgot milk again. Fighting over what kind of laundry detergent to use and then fucking against the dryer before the load was even done. Real.

The money still sat in your account, untouched for the most part. He had more than enough saved, and you did too. And neither of you really talked about it, but you both knew it wasn’t about the money anymore. It was about being able to touch each other without someone yelling cut. About hearing him whisper mine into your skin and knowing it meant something.

The house was small, still half-furnished, still smelled like paint in the corners. But it was yours. It was home.

And every morning started the same.

With him.

Somewhere between the weight of his arm around your waist and the sound of birds outside the window, you always woke up like this—wrapped up in him, skin tangled with sheets that still smelled like the two of you. The house would be quiet. The air just a little cool. And for a few perfect minutes, neither of you had anywhere to be. No makeup to do. No lines to memorize. Just warmth, skin, and the steady rise and fall of his chest pressed against your back.

Sometimes he’d murmur something against your neck—half-asleep nonsense, soft and mumbled and way too sweet for someone who once used the words “tight little cunt” on camera like it was poetry.

Sometimes he didn’t say anything at all. Just held you.

And other times, like right now…

It would start with the feeling of his cock pressed right up against your ass, hard and heavy and twitching through his briefs, like he’d been dreaming about you again His arm is still around your waist, palm splayed wide and warm over your stomach, and his nose is buried in your neck, breath slow and steady. You don’t even open your eyes. Just smirk to yourself and shift your hips back, rubbing against him, slow and lazy, until he groans softly in his sleep.

You feel his hand twitch where it rests against your stomach, sliding a little lower, like his body’s already clocked in even if his mind hasn’t caught up yet. His fingers dip below your navel, brushing the waistband of your panties. You wiggle your hips again, a little bolder this time, grinding back against the thick shape of him until he groans again—louder this time, awake now, mouth brushing your skin as he shifts behind you.

“You tryna start something?” he mumbles, voice low and scratchy with sleep.

You smile. “You’re the one poking me.”

He groans, presses a kiss to your shoulder, and slides his hand down over your panties, cupping you fully. His voice is lower now, all gravel and hunger. “You’re already wet.”

“Maybe I had a good dream.”

He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin. “You always dream about me?”

“Only when you don’t hog the blanket.”

His hand slips under the waistband without warning, two fingers dragging through the slick heat between your thighs. He groans again, deeper now, fingers spreading you open like he owns it. “Fuck. You’re soaked.”

You shiver, breath catching as he teases your clit with lazy circles. “Then do something about it.”

“Yeah?” he breathes, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You want it like this? All slow and sleepy?”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut as he strokes you a little deeper. “Want you, Katsuki. Just like this.”

You feel his smile against your neck. Then his fingers are gone, and he’s tugging your panties down with one hand, pushing them down your thighs until you kick them off with a soft little whine. He presses himself up against you again, grinding slow against your ass, his cock rock-hard under the thin cotton of his briefs.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Feel how bad I need you?”

You reach behind you, sliding your hand between your bodies, finding the waistband of his briefs and pushing them down just enough to free him. His cock presses hot and heavy against your bare skin now, and he groans at the contact, rolling his hips until he’s sliding between your thighs, not inside, just rubbing against your slick folds like he’s savoring it.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just breathes. You feel the weight of him behind you, wrapped around you, and the thick head of his cock dragging through your wetness slow and easy, again and again, until you’re writhing, your body aching to be filled.

“Please,” you whisper. “Katsuki, I need it.”

He pushes in without a word.

One long, deep stroke, slow enough that you feel every inch stretch you open, fill you up, sink into you like he’s molding himself to the shape of you from the inside out. Your mouth falls open. He groans into your shoulder, his hand gripping your waist like he’s holding on for dear life.

“God,” he rasps. “You always take me so fuckin’ good.”

You moan, soft and real, grinding your hips back to meet his next thrust. He moves slow at first, dragging out each roll of his hips like he wants to memorize the way you feel wrapped around him. His hand slides up to your chest, palm cupping your breast as he fucks you from behind, lazy and deep, breath hot against your neck.

The room is still dim, light barely leaking through the curtains, and the only sounds are his breath, your moans, the soft slap of skin on skin as he sinks into you over and over again.

“Can’t believe I get to wake up to this,” he mutters, lips against your ear. “To you.”

You whimper. “Katsuki—”

His hand drifts down between your legs again, fingers rubbing slow circles against your clit while he fucks into you, his rhythm never faltering. It’s too much and not enough, overwhelming and perfect all at once.

“You gonna cum for me?” he breathes. “This tight little pussy already clenching on me like she’s close.”

“Yes—fuck, yes—don’t stop—”

He grinds in deep, holds it there, fingers working you just right until you break with a soft cry, your body locking up as the orgasm crashes through you, pulsing around him in slow, aching waves. You hear him groan as you tighten around his cock, and he starts to move again, chasing his own high now, thrusts getting rougher, needier.

“Shit—baby—feels so fuckin’ good—”

You reach behind you, hand tangling in his hair, tugging him closer as he fucks into you harder, faster, until he’s gasping your name and spilling inside you, cock twitching deep as he groans into your neck.

The two of you stay there for a minute—sweaty, breathless, still tangled together, his cock still buried inside you, your skin sticky with heat and sweat and morning light.

Then he shifts, kissing your shoulder again, voice soft. “We’re disgusting.”

You smile. “Speak for yourself.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “You’re the one who begged for it.”

You hum, smug. “And I got it.”

He groans and flops onto his back, dragging you with him, letting you settle on top of him, his arms wrapping around your waist like he’s never planning to let go.

You press a kiss to his collarbone, his chest still rising and falling beneath you, warm and steady and safe.

This was everything.

Just you and him and the quiet, and nowhere to be.

Bakugo was still half-asleep beneath you, one hand drifting aimlessly up and down your back, the other tucked under your thigh where it had landed during round one and never left. His cock had softened inside you, but he hadn’t pulled out. You didn’t mind. You liked it like this—slow and messy and full of him. His cum already leaking out of you, cooling against your thighs, but neither of you moved. The sheets were ruined. You didn’t care.

He mumbled something against your hair, too quiet to catch, and you smiled into his chest.

“What?” you asked softly.

“I said,” he repeated, voice rough, “if we keep doing this every morning, we’re gonna go through bedsheets faster than groceries.”

You laughed into his skin. “Then stop cumming in me like a man with a breeding kink.”

He didn’t laugh. Just went still for a second.

You blinked, lifting your head. “I’m joking—Jesus, relax.”

He huffed, but you saw the way his eyes flicked down your body, lingering where you were still connected, sticky and flushed and warm. He didn’t say anything.

“You’re not getting all weird about that now, are you?”

“No,” he muttered.

“Because we’re being careful. And I’m not trying to be barefoot and pregnant with your demon spawn.”

That made him laugh—finally. A real one. Deep and low and warm in his chest. “Yet.”

You rolled your eyes. “Katsuki.”

He kissed you to shut you up, and you let him.

Eventually, you peeled yourselves out of bed and into the shower—half-cleaning, half-groping, ending with him pushing you up against the tile wall and fucking you again while the water ran cold.

By the time you both made it downstairs, it was almost noon.

Bakugo wore grey sweats, no shirt, towel-dried hair messy, and his usual morning scowl soft around the edges from sex and sleep. You were in one of his shirts and nothing else, legs still shaky as you climbed onto the counter while he made coffee.

You were halfway through stealing the last piece of sourdough when his phone buzzed on the kitchen island.

He ignored it at first, focused on trying not to burn the eggs again.

It buzzed again.

You glanced over. “Is that Keigo again?”

“Probably,” he muttered.

He reached for it anyway, flipping it open with one hand, balancing the spatula in the other. You watched his face shift as he scrolled—soft confusion, followed by that little furrow between his brows you knew too well. Not annoyed. Just focused.

“What?” you asked, mouth full.

He didn’t answer.

“Katsuki?”

He tilted the screen toward you.

You squinted at the message, chewing slowly.

An offer.

A comeback scene.

Big budget. New studio. New girl.

One-time shoot.

A rate so high you blinked twice just to make sure you weren’t reading it wrong.

You snorted. “That’s fake.”

“I don’t think it is,” he muttered.

“They must be desperate.”

He didn’t laugh.

You narrowed your eyes. “Wait. You’re not actually—”

“I’m just saying,” he said, still scrolling, tone too calm, too casual. “It’s a lot of money.”

You stared at him.

He looked back.

And something in your chest pulled tight.

“No.”

“I didn’t say yes,” he said quickly.

“But you’re considering it.”

“I’m just—thinking.”

You slid off the counter, toes hitting the cold tile, the hem of his shirt swishing around your thighs. “Thinking about sticking your dick in someone else?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like?”

He set the phone down. “It’s a job.”

“Not anymore.”

His jaw tightened. “It’s not like I caught feelings for every scene partner I ever had.”

“It’s not about that anymore,” you snapped. “You’re mine.”

He flinched. Just slightly.

“I left the industry for you,” you said. “We both did. I gave up everything. And now you’re telling me what—we’re one big paycheck away from you crawling back into bed with some new girl for content?”

“It’s not about her.”

“Then what is it? Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like you’re willing to throw everything away for a fucking cheque.”

“I’m not throwing anything away,” he said sharply. “It’s a one-time thing.”

“And that makes it better?”

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and for the first time in weeks, he wasn’t soft.

He was calm. Cold.

Like a pro.

Like the guy he used to be.

Your chest ached.

You turned away. “I can’t believe you.”

“Baby—”

“No,” you said, voice low. “Don’t call me that right now.”

The silence hit heavy.

You walked out of the kitchen, footsteps slow, careful, arms crossed over your chest like you were holding yourself together.

He didn’t follow.

You made it to the bathroom, closed the door, sat on the edge of the tub. Your pulse was in your throat. Your head was spinning. You weren’t crying. Not yet. Not even angry.

Just… tired.

So tired.

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees, taking a deep breath.

And your stomach lurched.

You froze.

Swallowed.

And ran to the toilet just in time to throw up everything you’d eaten.

Your hands gripped the edge of the bowl. The tile was cold against your knees. The bitter taste in your mouth didn’t even register.

You stayed there, trembling, staring at the floor like it might give you answers.

It didn’t.

But something inside you already knew.

Not because of the nausea. Not even because of the skipped period you hadn’t really processed until right now.

But because of the way your body had changed this past week—tired all the time, sore in places that didn’t usually ache, the way your chest felt heavier in the mornings, and how certain smells made you gag for no reason.

And the way he looked at you lately—like something was glowing under your skin and he didn’t know how to name it.

You sat there on the cold tile floor, palms flat against your thighs, trying to breathe through the thought without breaking. It felt impossible. Like the second you gave it space, it would swallow you whole. This huge, terrifying thing growing in the corner of your mind like a secret you weren’t ready to say out loud.

Not even to him.

Especially not now.

Not when he was still in the kitchen.

Still standing there with his phone in his hand, thinking about fucking someone else for a paycheck.

You didn’t even blame him.

Not really.

You knew how much money that was. You knew what it meant to walk away from something like that, how many people would kill for even half that offer. You knew what it meant to be practical.

But you also knew how it would feel.

Watching him strip for someone else. Touch someone else. Pretend to want someone else. Even just for a day. Even just for a scene.

You’d spent years acting. Years pretending. But there was no pretending anymore. Not with him. You’d felt it the first time he touched you and again every time after—this wasn’t a job. Not anymore. It was real. Messy. Beautiful. Yours.

And now this.

Your stomach twisted again, but you didn’t move.

You just sat there, staring at the floor, until your breath finally evened out and your head stopped spinning.

Then, slow and quiet, you got up.

Washed your face. Brushed your teeth. Pulled on some soft shorts and tied your hair up like nothing was wrong.

And then you opened the drawer under the sink, where you’d stuffed a half-used box of pregnancy tests last year during a false alarm.

You stared at it.

Stared through it.

Then you grabbed one, unwrapped it, and sat back down on the toilet like your hands weren’t shaking.

The silence felt louder than it should.

Louder than the party music that used to pulse through your earpiece on set. Louder than the breathy moans you used to fake for the camera.

This was real.

This was just you.

And a little stick that would either ruin everything or explain it all.

You peed on it. Set it on the counter. Washed your hands.

Waited.

You didn’t pace. Didn’t look. Just stood there with your fingers braced against the counter, staring into the sink like you could fall into it.

You told yourself not to check too early. That two minutes wasn’t that long.

But thirty seconds in, you looked anyway.

And there it was.

One line.

Then another.

Faint. Pink. Obvious.

Positive.

The sound you made wasn’t even a gasp. It was quieter than that. A breath, stolen out of your lungs. A sob that never formed.

You sat down again, this time on the closed toilet lid, the test still shaking in your hands.

Pregnant.

You were pregnant.

Bakugo was downstairs, somewhere between scrambled eggs and a maybe-cheating debate, and you were upstairs, holding proof that your life was about to split in half.

You pressed a hand to your belly again.

There was nothing there yet. No bump. No flutters. No heartbeat you could feel.

But it was real.

This thing. This tiny, terrifying, impossible thing.

You didn’t cry.

Not yet.

You just sat there.

And realized you had no fucking idea what to do next.

The test sat quiet on the counter like it wasn’t ruining your whole world. Just two pink lines. Faint, delicate, innocent. Like it hadn’t detonated a bomb in your chest.

You stared at it for another minute, hand still flat against your stomach, like you were trying to feel something. A flutter. A kick. A sign. But there was nothing. Just silence and the thick hum of panic under your skin.

You didn’t cry.

Didn’t scream.

You just… stood up. And started moving.

The house was quiet when you stepped out of the bathroom. Still smelled like toast and sex and expensive coffee grounds. You moved slow, careful, like one wrong step might make it all collapse.

He was still downstairs. You could hear him in the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets like he was trying to stay busy. Like he was still mad. Still unsure. Still thinking about it.

You didn’t go to him.

You went to the bedroom.

Grabbed a duffel bag from the closet and pulled open the dresser drawers. You didn’t pack much. Just enough. A few outfits. Your charger. Your toothbrush. You weren’t running away. You just needed space. Time. Room to think without his voice in your ear or the weight of his silence in your bed.

You zipped the bag shut and stood there for a second, hand tight around the strap.

This wasn’t about punishing him.

It was about protecting yourself.

And something else now too.

You stepped into the hallway. Your feet felt like bricks. Every part of you wanted to crawl back into bed, pretend you hadn’t seen it. Hadn’t felt it. Hadn’t watched the man you loved seriously consider letting someone else touch him again like it was no big deal.

You made it halfway down the stairs before he saw you.

He looked up from where he stood near the counter, phone in one hand, coffee untouched in the other. His eyes dropped to the bag slung over your shoulder. And his whole body stiffened.

“Where are you going?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Keigo’s.”

He blinked, slow. “What?”

“I texted him,” you said, voice quiet but steady. “He said I could stay a few nights.”

Bakugo set his coffee down, like the act of holding something suddenly felt impossible. “Why?”

You stared at him.

Waited.

Let him connect the dots himself.

And when he didn’t—when his silence stretched too long, too confused, too hurt—you gave him the only answer you had.

“Because I need to stay somewhere that doesn’t make me feel like I’m about to be cheated on for a cheque.”

His mouth opened. Closed. No sound came out.

You tightened your grip on the bag. “I love you. But I need you to really think about what you’re doing. About what it means to even consider it. Because if this is something you’re still on the fence about, then I can’t be here while you figure it out.”

His jaw tensed. “You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust this version of you,” you whispered. “The one that looks at money and forgets what we built.”

The pain on his face flickered fast, like he didn’t want you to see it—but you did. You saw all of it. The confusion. The guilt. The way his hands curled into fists like he wanted to fix it, but didn’t know how.

You didn’t wait for him to say anything else.

You turned.

Walked toward the door.

And before you stepped out, you paused, one hand on the handle, your voice soft.

“I’ll be at Keigo’s if you decide that I’m worth more than a fucking paycheck.”

Then you were gone.

And the door closed behind you.

The door closed behind you.

The air outside was cooler than you expected, your breath catching a little in your chest as you walked down the driveway. You didn’t have a plan past this. Just the bag slung over your shoulder and the phone in your hand, screen dark and heavy like it knew what you were about to do.

You hadn’t actually texted Keigo.

You said it like you had, like it was settled, like your best friend who sometimes slept until noon and always forgot to charge his phone would definitely be available for some kind of emotional bed-and-breakfast situation.

But you hadn’t sent the message.

Because you hadn’t known what to say.

And because when everything cracked open inside you, the only place that felt remotely safe wasn’t a hotel, or a friend with a couch, or your sister two cities over.

It was Keigo.

Of course it was Keigo.

He was the only person who knew what this world had been like for you. What the job had meant. What it had cost. He’d seen you on your best and worst days. Had filmed with you when your hands were shaking and kissed your forehead before scenes when you were too anxious to fake it. He’d seen you fall in love with Bakugo even before you realized you had.

So when your thumb hovered over his name, you didn’t write a long explanation. You didn’t even say anything dramatic.

You just texted:

“Are you home?”

He responded in thirty seconds.

“Always.”

You blinked away the burn behind your eyes and typed back:

“I’m coming over.”

And that was it.

No questions.

No judgment.

And when you got there, he opened the door before you even knocked.

His hair was a mess, blonde tufts sticking in every direction, sweatpants slung low on his hips and an old band tee hanging loose over his chest. He had a toothbrush in one hand and a protein bar in the other, like he’d been mid-bite when he saw your name pop up and forgot how to function after.

His eyes swept over you, down to the duffel bag, and back up.

He blinked.

“You look like shit.”

You let out a quiet laugh that broke halfway through. “Thanks.”

He stepped aside. “Get in here.”

The second the door closed behind you, the weight hit you all at once. Your chest tightened. Your throat burned. But you didn’t cry. You just stood in the entryway while Keigo locked the door behind you, his movements quiet, slow, careful.

He turned around. Didn’t push. Didn’t ask.

Just held out his arms.

And you stepped right into them.

No words. No explanations.

His body was warm. Familiar. The way he held you—arms wrapping tight, chin resting on your head, it didn’t feel romantic. It didn’t even feel fragile.

It felt like safety.

You didn’t know how long you stood there. Long enough for your breath to even out. Long enough to stop shaking.

Eventually, he pulled back, hands still on your arms.

“You hungry?” he asked.

You shook your head.

“You wanna shower?”

Another shake.

“You wanna talk?”

You hesitated. Then whispered, “Not yet.”

He nodded. “Cool. I got like five types of ice cream and a couch with your name on it.”

You smiled. Small. Tired.

“Also, I’m watching that trashy dating show you hate.”

You groaned. “Of course you are.”

“I’m doing you a favor. Lowering your standards before you crawl back to your man.”

You stiffened. He caught it.

His eyes softened.

“Hey,” he said gently. “I’m not judging. I just know you love that idiot.”

You didn’t answer.

He didn’t push.

He just took your bag, pointed toward the living room, and said, “You’re on blanket duty. I’ll be there in five.”

You sank onto the couch, pulling the throw over your lap, curling into the cushions like they might hold you together.

Your hand drifted to your stomach again. Light. Careful. Protective.

You didn’t know what was going to happen next.

But at least for tonight—you weren’t alone.

Keigo didn’t hover.

He didn’t ask why you showed up at his door with a bag and puffy eyes. Didn’t pry when you curled into the couch under the throw blanket like your body was trying to disappear. He just dropped onto the other end, grabbed the remote, and turned on whatever trash he’d been watching before you showed up. Something dramatic. Loud. Ridiculous.

You let it play.

For a while, neither of you talked. He didn’t need to. You weren’t ready. And he knew that.

You sat there in silence, the glow of the TV washing over the room in soft colors while some girl on screen cried over a man named Bryce who’d definitely slept with her best friend.

Keigo clicked his tongue. “Messy.”

You snorted without meaning to.

His eyes flicked to you.

He grinned. “There she is.”

You rolled your eyes and hugged the blanket tighter.

After another minute, he shifted suddenly, sitting up a little straighter.

“You know what, bitch?” he said, tone way too enthusiastic for someone wearing socks with holes in them. “I got just the thing for you.”

You raised a brow. “Keigo—”

“Nope. Don’t talk. Let me fix you.”

“You’re not fixing anything.”

He was already on his feet, waving a dismissive hand as he wandered toward the kitchen. “Shut up and mourn your toxic man in peace. I’ll be right back.”

You smiled despite yourself. That dumb, warm little twist in your chest that only came from someone who knew you too well. You sank back into the couch, head tipping against the cushion, letting the sounds of the show fill the room while he clattered around in the kitchen.

Drawers opened. Something clinked. The fridge door squeaked.

A few minutes later, he reappeared—two wine glasses in hand, both filled with a generous pour of deep red.

You blinked.

He held one out to you. “To men being trash.”

You stared at the wine glass.

Didn’t take it.

Your throat started to close.

Your chest got tight.

And before you could stop it—your face crumpled.

Keigo blinked. “Wait—what?”

You shook your head, covering your face with one hand, and the tears started spilling fast. Quiet, but heavy. You tried to breathe through it, tried to wave him off, but it was too late.

He sat down quick, the wine still in his hands. “Shit—what’d I do? What happened?”

You couldn’t speak at first.

Just buried your face in your palms and choked on the words.

Keigo’s voice gentled. “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to—just breathe, babe. You’re alright. I’m here.”

“I’m not mad about the wine, I swear,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I just—I can’t have it.”

Keigo stared at you.

Then stared at the wine.

Then back at you.

And his whole face shifted.

“…oh shit.”

Without another word, he placed both wines down and then picked up your untouched glass and poured the whole thing into his. Set the empty one aside like it had betrayed you both.

You laughed, messy and wet.

He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, face open. “Tell me everything.”

So you did.

You told him about the morning. About waking up wrapped in Bakugo like nothing had changed. About how perfect it had been, how happy you’d felt—until that email. Until Bakugo had looked at a number on a screen and hesitated.

You told him about the offer. The girl. The way he didn’t say no. How your heart had split in two while he stood there quiet, calculating.

You told him about the fight. About the way Bakugo looked at you—professional. Like he’d stepped back into a version of himself you thought he’d buried.

You told him you threw up. Took a test. Watched the second pink line appear like it had been waiting for this exact moment to fuck you up.

By the time you finished, your hands were in your lap and Keigo was quiet beside you, one elbow propped on the couch, wine glass forgotten.

He didn’t say anything for a while.

“Goddamn.”

You exhaled. “Yeah.”

He shook his head, blowing out a soft breath. “I’m not gonna lie, I kinda wanna punch him.”

You almost smiled. “I know.”

“But I also know him,” he added. “And I know that if he’d seen that test first? He would’ve lost his goddamn mind.”

You looked down. Your voice went quiet. “But he didn’t.”

Keigo didn’t argue.

Didn’t defend him.

He just shifted closer, nudged your knee with his. “You gonna tell him?”

“I don’t know.”

“You want him to know?”

You hesitated.

And in the silence, Keigo just nodded, like he understood even that.

He leaned back into the couch and took a sip of the wine he definitely didn’t want anymore. “Well,” he said. “Until you do, this couch is yours. So’s the ice cream.”

You snorted. “You said that like it was a prize.”

“Have you seen my freezer?”

You laughed, properly this time, and wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie. “Thanks, Kei.”

“Anytime.”

He bumped your shoulder with his, lazy and gentle.

And the two of you sat like that—half-curled into each other, trash TV still playing in the background, a full glass of wine untouched on the table—and for the first time all day, you felt like maybe, just maybe, everything might not fall apart after all.

The next morning came too early.

You hadn’t really slept, just drifted in and out between half-dreams and the glow of Keigo’s TV. He’d stayed up with you, never pushing, just letting you exist. At some point he fell asleep at the other end of the couch, one leg kicked over the armrest, mouth half-open, blanket tangled around his waist like he’d wrestled a ghost in his sleep.

You sat up slowly, hair a mess, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. Your hand dropped to your stomach before you even thought about it. Just a soft touch. A check-in.

Still real.

Still terrifying.

You didn’t know how to feel. You weren’t ready to be a mom. But you were even less ready to walk back into that house and face a man who looked at you like a choice instead of a certainty.

Keigo stirred with a groan. “God, my spine is broken.”

You snorted. “You did that to yourself.”

He opened one eye and smirked. “I do everything to myself. But you—you look a little less haunted. That’s a win.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled. “It’s the pregnancy glow.”

He gagged dramatically and rolled off the couch.

You spent the rest of the day like that—floating in a weird limbo of cozy clothes, bad food, and Keigo pretending he wasn’t watching you like a hawk when you stood too still or stared too long at nothing. He didn’t ask again. Just sat with you. Waited.

But Bakugo didn’t text.

Didn’t call.

Didn’t show up.

And it hit harder than you wanted it to.

The second day passed slower. Keigo dragged you to the corner store, forced you into a cart like a toddler, and tossed prenatal vitamins into your basket when he thought you weren’t looking. You said nothing. Let him. It was easier than explaining how you hadn’t bought them yet because part of you still wasn’t ready to accept this was really happening.

That night, you fell asleep curled into the couch again, Keigo’s blanket pulled over your head like you could hide from the world.

Meanwhile—

Bakugo sat on the edge of your shared bed, phone in his hand, staring at your last message like he could will it to say something different.

You’d been gone for two days.

He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t eaten. The house smelled like nothing. Like empty space. Like you’d never been there at all.

He’d cleaned the kitchen three times. Took the trash out even though it was barely full. Sat on the couch with the TV on mute for hours, watching the screen without seeing a thing.

And the offer?

Still sitting in his inbox.

He hadn’t opened it since you left.

Hadn’t touched it.

Hadn’t deleted it either.

He didn’t know what to do.

He fucked up. That part was obvious. The second your eyes filled with tears and your voice cracked when you said “I need to stay somewhere that doesn’t make me feel like I’m about to be cheated on for a cheque,” something in him snapped in half.

He wasn’t gonna do it. He wasn’t.

But he hadn’t said that.

He froze. Stupid. Thought about the number. The money. The “what ifs.” He hesitated—and you saw that. You felt that.

And now?

Now you were gone.

He looked around the room and realized how quiet everything felt without you. How still. How wrong.

Your charger was still plugged in beside the bed.

Your hair tie was still looped around the doorknob of the bathroom.

Your robe still hung on the hook.

He stood up suddenly, like the silence was suffocating him, and grabbed his keys without thinking. He needed to move. Needed to breathe. He didn’t even know where he was going until he was already outside.

Across town, Keigo was cleaning up dinner when his phone buzzed.

He glanced at it once.

Then again.

Then sighed.

“Hey,” he called toward the living room. “You decent?”

“Why?”

“Someone’s here.”

You looked up from the blanket nest you’d made on his couch.

Your stomach dropped.

Keigo opened the door before you could move.

And there he was.

Katsuki Bakugo.

A mess.

Sweatpants. Hoodie. Hair a wreck. Eyes red like he hadn’t slept since you left. He looked past Keigo immediately, eyes scanning the living room until they landed on you.

His whole body stilled.

Your heart slammed in your chest.

Keigo crossed his arms. “You lost?”

Bakugo’s jaw clenched. “She here?”

“You gonna do something stupid if I say yes?”

He didn’t answer.

Keigo looked back at you.

You were frozen.

Not ready.

But you nodded.

Just once.

Keigo stepped aside.

Bakugo stepped in.

And the room felt like it couldn’t hold both of you at once.

You sat there curled up on Keigo’s couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, blanket tucked to your chin like you were trying to hide in plain sight. You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at him with wide, quiet eyes—like the sight of him hurt and you didn’t have the energy to pretend it didn’t.

He looked the same as he did the night you left. Except worse.

Hoodie rumpled. Hair a mess. Jaw tight like he hadn’t unclenched it since you slammed the door behind you. His hands were in his pockets, like he didn’t trust them not to reach for you. His voice cracked when he finally said your name.

You blinked.

Didn’t say anything.

He shifted his weight, like he didn’t know where to stand. “I opened that offer. I saw it. We both did.”

Your gaze dropped to the blanket.

“But I need you to know that when I saw the offer, I didn’t hesitate because I wanted to touch her or because I wanted to fuck someone else. I haven’t wanted anyone but you in months. You know that.”

Still, you said nothing. You didn’t argue.

He took a step forward, slow and careful.

“You left,” he said, softer now. “And I get why. I fucked up. You needed me to be certain and I hesitated. I looked at a number instead of looking at you. And I’ll regret that for the rest of my fucking life.”

Your throat bobbed.

“But I’m here,” he said. “I’m here now, and I’ll keep being here until you decide if you want me back.”

You shifted slightly, curling tighter into yourself. “It wasn’t just the job, Katsuki.”

His whole body froze. “What?”

“It was how easy it felt for you to think about it. Like everything we walked away from didn’t mean as much to you as it did to me.”

He looked like you’d slapped him.

You swallowed. “You said it was just acting. But it’s not just acting to me anymore. I thought we were past that. I thought we were building something real.”

“We are.”

Your voice dropped. Barely a whisper. “Then why did it feel so fake that day?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

No answer.

You finally looked up at him again. Your eyes were tired. Sad. He saw the pain in them, the kind that ran deep, old and new all tangled together—and still, you hadn’t told him the truth.

He had no idea that what you were really asking was “Can I trust you to be a father?”

“Can I trust you not to choose your past over our future?”

But you couldn’t say it yet. Not while it still hurt like this.

He stepped closer. Sat on the coffee table in front of you so he wasn’t towering over you anymore. His knees brushed the edge of the blanket.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said, voice low. “But I’ll do whatever it takes. I mean that.”

You stared at him, your heart thudding so loud you could barely hear yourself think.

But your lips parted anyway.

And all you said was, “Okay.”

Not forgiveness. Not a welcome.

Just that.

And he nodded.

Didn’t smile. Didn’t breathe easy.

Just sat there.

Like a man waiting for permission to hope.

You stared at him.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg.

Just waited—like if you breathed too hard, it might all disappear.

You should’ve been angry still. Should’ve made him sit in it longer. But something in you shifted when you saw his face tonight. The way he walked in, quiet and wrecked, like he hadn’t slept. The way he spoke, slow and steady, like he’d rehearsed every word a thousand times just to get it right for you.

“I wanna go home,” you said softly.

He blinked.

You stood up, letting the blanket fall from your lap, hoodie sleeves still swallowed around your hands. “If we go home, will you come with me?”

Bakugo stood before the last word left your mouth. “Yeah. Yeah—of course.”

You didn’t touch each other. Didn’t say anything else. Just turned and walked toward the kitchen where Keigo was pretending not to eavesdrop behind the fridge door.

He looked up when you stepped in.

“You leaving?” he asked, already knowing.

You nodded. “Thanks for letting me hide out.”

“You can always come back,” he said, grinning like he hadn’t been secretly worried about you this entire time. “Just don’t wait ‘til you’re pregnant with twins next time, yeah?”

You choked.

Bakugo stiffened beside you.

Keigo froze.

A beat of silence passed—too long.

“…wait,” he said slowly, eyes bouncing between you two. “Does he not—”

You stepped on his foot, hard.

He yelped. “Okay! Cool! Goodbye! Don’t be strangers!”

Bakugo squinted. “What the fuck was that?”

“Nothing,” you said too quickly. “He’s just being annoying.”

“…right.”

You hugged Keigo tight, whispered a quick thank you, and turned before he could say anything else.

Bakugo didn’t say much on the way out. Just kept close, held the car door open, rested his hand on the back of your seat the whole drive home like he needed the contact even if you didn’t reach for him.

When you got back to the house, the porch light was still on. Like it had been waiting for you.

You stepped inside first. The air smelled the same—soft laundry, old coffee, faint vanilla from the candle you forgot to blow out the last morning you were here.

It hit you all at once.

The familiarity.

The comfort.

The ache.

You dropped your bag at the door and turned around just as Bakugo closed it behind him.

You stared at each other for a moment in the quiet.

He stepped forward. “Do you want space?”

You shook your head. “I just want to go to bed.”

He nodded once.

No questions.

No pressure.

Just followed you into the bedroom, moving like he was afraid to touch anything too hard in case it broke.

You didn’t curl into him that night. Didn’t kiss him. But you let him sleep in the same bed. And he didn’t ask for anything more.

He just laid there beside you, quiet, breathing, waiting.

And you knew tomorrow, you’d have to tell him everything.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you just needed to be home.

The next morning, the light crept in slow.

You felt it on your face before you opened your eyes—warm and golden, filtering through the curtains like nothing bad had ever happened here. For a second, you forgot everything. Forgot the fight. The offer. The bag you’d packed in a hurry and the two nights you spent curled on Keigo’s couch like you’d forgotten how to breathe.

You just felt warm.

And then you felt him.

Bakugo’s arm was draped over your waist, heavy and protective, fingers resting just above the curve of your stomach. His face was buried in your neck, breath slow and even, like he’d finally slept for the first time in days. You didn’t remember shifting into him during the night. Didn’t remember turning toward him or letting him in—but it didn’t surprise you.

Because this was always the part that made sense.

This.

Him.

You shifted slightly under the covers and felt his grip tighten.

His voice was soft, still sticky with sleep. “You leavin’ again?”

You shook your head. “No.”

He hummed and pulled you closer, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder.

And for a moment, you let yourself have it. That quiet, sleepy closeness. The kind you used to take for granted.

But it didn’t last.

The nausea came fast.

Violent.

You tensed under his arm and swallowed hard. That heavy weight in your stomach twisted, flipped—and suddenly the room was spinning.

You sat up quickly.

Bakugo’s arm dropped. “What’s—”

You didn’t answer.

Just bolted.

The sound of your bare feet hitting the floorboards was loud in the silence, followed by the bathroom door swinging open and the unmistakable retching that echoed right after.

Bakugo was up immediately.

“Shit—baby?” His voice was frantic now. Half-asleep panic. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You were too busy gripping the toilet, your whole body trembling as everything you had in you came back up.

Bakugo was at your side in seconds. Hand on your back, the other pulling your hair gently out of your face. You felt him settle next to you on the tile, warm and solid and there.

“You’re sick?” he asked, voice low and careful.

You didn’t look at him.

Just wiped your mouth with shaking fingers and whispered, “No.”

He paused.

“…Then what is it?”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

The words hovered at the edge of your throat, caught somewhere between fear and inevitability.

Then you whispered:

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

Not long. Not loud.

But deafening.

You finally looked at him.

He was already staring at you.

And the expression on his face was unreadable.

Not scared.

Not angry.

Just—stunned.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

His voice came quiet.

“You’re…?”

You nodded.

He stared at your face. Then your stomach. Then back again.

And then he exhaled—like he’d been holding his breath for days.

“Fuck.”

You braced yourself for panic. For questions. For him to stand up and walk out or shut down completely like he used to when the pressure got too loud.

But he didn’t.

He just reached out—slowly—and rested his palm over your stomach. Barely touching. Just enough to feel something that wasn’t there yet.

“You’re pregnant,” he said again, softer this time. Like it was finally sinking in.

Your breath hitched.

And then, in the smallest voice you’d made in a long time, you said, “I was going to tell you. I just… I didn’t know how.”

He looked up at you then, eyes wide and full of something you couldn’t name.

“You should’ve told me the second you knew.”

“I wanted to.”

“So why didn’t you?”

You swallowed hard. “Because you were still deciding if I was worth more than a fucking paycheck.”

That shattered something in him.

And he didn’t defend himself.

Didn’t say a word.

He just looked at you like he’d never hated himself more.

But you didn’t move.

You didn’t stand up or pull away or shove his hand off your stomach. You just stayed right there on the cold tile floor, knees drawn up, hoodie sliding down your shoulder, throat tight with everything you’d been holding in for days.

Bakugo didn’t move either.

His hand stayed right where it was—resting over the soft curve of your belly. There was nothing to feel yet. No bump. No movement. Just skin. Just potential.

But the way he touched you…

It wasn’t casual.

It wasn’t unsure.

It was reverent.

His thumb stroked a small line over your hoodie, like he was trying to memorize this moment. Like he was afraid if he blinked, it would disappear.

“I didn’t know,” he said, voice rough. “Fuck. I didn’t know.”

“I know,” you whispered.

“If I’d known…”

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

And he fell quiet.

You didn’t need him to finish the sentence.

Because you knew.

He would’ve slammed the laptop shut. Would’ve deleted the offer. Would’ve gotten on his knees and begged if he had to. You knew that. Deep down, you always did.

But it didn’t change the fact that he hesitated without knowing.

And that still hurt.

“You scared the shit out of me,” you said, voice shaking. “You looked at me like I was asking too much. Like loving me wasn’t enough.”

His hand curled a little tighter.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered. “I never wanted to make you feel like that.”

You blinked back tears. “Well, you did.”

He nodded, jaw tight, and didn’t argue. Didn’t try to make it pretty.

He just sat there on the floor with you, looking like someone who’d been punched in the chest and didn’t want to move in case the pain got worse.

And then, so quietly you barely heard it, he said:

“Are you keeping it?”

You looked down at his hand on your stomach.

And nodded.

His breath left him in one slow exhale, like he’d been bracing for the answer to break him.

“Okay,” he said.

You blinked. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” he said. “We’re doing this.”

You stared at him.

“I’m not letting you do it alone,” he added. “No matter what happens. I’m in.”

You swallowed hard. “Katsuki…”

His eyes met yours. “I love you.”

There was no shake in his voice this time. No hesitation. Just those three words, clear and grounded and real.

You reached for him without meaning to—fingers curling into the front of his hoodie—and he moved instantly, arms wrapping around you, holding you to his chest like he didn’t care how raw it still was between you.

You buried your face in his shoulder.

And for the first time since you saw those two pink lines…

You let yourself cry.

He didn’t say a word.

Just held you.

One hand on your back.

The other still resting on your stomach.

He held you for a long time.

Just sat there on the bathroom floor with you in his arms, the morning light spilling across the tiles, his palm warm and steady over your stomach. You cried into his shoulder—quiet, messy, not loud enough to echo. He didn’t shush you. Didn’t rush you. He just stayed.

Present. Gentle. Real.

Eventually, your tears faded into soft breaths, your fingers still curled into the front of his hoodie. His cheek rested against the top of your head. Neither of you moved.

Then—his voice, low and quiet:

“Come back to bed?”

You nodded.

He helped you up without letting go, one hand guiding you, the other still cradling your hip like he was afraid you might break if he touched you too hard. You let him lead you back to the bedroom, both of you silent, moving slow, your legs a little shaky but your heart finally starting to settle.

The sheets were still warm. Familiar. You climbed in first, slid under the blanket, curled toward the center like muscle memory. He followed, slower, more cautious. Laid beside you on his side, facing you, eyes soft and searching.

His fingers trailed up your waist like he was trying to remember you all over again—every curve, every freckle, every part of you he thought he might’ve lost. You laid there beneath him, skin bare, eyes soft, heart cracked wide open. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. He was already listening to every shift in your breath, every quiet sound that slipped from your lips like music he couldn’t go another second without hearing.

He looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were still here. Like he didn’t deserve it.

His fingers lifted, brushing a piece of hair from your cheek. “Can I touch you?”

You nodded.

“Tell me if anything feels wrong, okay? I mean it.”

“I will.”

He leaned in, slowly, giving you a chance to pull back. You didn’t. You met him halfway, lips brushing his in a soft, tentative kiss that melted into something deeper the second his hand found your waist.

He kissed you slowly, like the world had stopped spinning just for this.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, voice hoarse.

You nodded. “I need you.”

His lips brushed yours again, and again, before he moved lower—down your neck, over your collarbone, dragging his mouth across your chest as his hands slid down your sides. His thumb traced the underside of your breast, gentle, reverent, before he cupped you in his palm and kissed the soft skin there, breathing against you like a prayer.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmured, tongue flicking over your nipple, then sucking it into his mouth until you gasped and arched into him. He stayed there for a moment, his other hand massaging your hip, grounding you, letting your body respond in its own time.

You moaned softly, your thighs already shifting beneath him, breath shaky as his kisses dragged lower, over your ribs, your stomach—pausing for a second at the soft skin just beneath your navel.

He glanced up, hand stroking your thigh now. “Is this okay?”

You reached for him, your fingers threading through his messy blonde hair, voice soft but certain. “Please.”

He settled between your thighs like he’d been craving it. His hands slid under your knees and pushed them open just a little more, spreading you for him with a careful gentleness that made you melt. He didn’t rush—just stared for a second, lips parted, breath shallow.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like he couldn’t believe this was still his. “You’re already wet.”

You nodded, biting your lip. “Katsuki, please.”

He leaned in slowly and licked a slow, teasing stripe up your center, groaning low in his throat like he was getting high off the taste of you. You gasped, hips twitching, and he wrapped his arms around your thighs to hold you steady, flattening his tongue and dragging it over you again—circling your clit in soft, slow swirls until your back arched and a shaky moan spilled from your lips.

“That feel okay?” he murmured, voice thick.

You nodded fast. “Yes, fuck—yes.”

He smiled against you and dove back in, mouth working you with a slow, deliberate rhythm that had your whole body trembling. He licked and sucked, tongue curling against your clit, then dipping down to tease your entrance before fucking you with it shallowly—slow, lazy strokes that made your thighs quiver around his head.

Your hands stayed tangled in his hair, pulling gently, fingers tightening every time he groaned into you. You could feel it building fast—tight, hot pressure rolling through your core like a wave about to crash.

“Katsuki—I’m—”

“Come for me,” he rasped, his voice thick and low and full of heat. “Wanna feel you cum on my tongue.”

You broke.

Your whole body tensed, thighs shaking, a cry escaping your lips as you came hard—pulsing against his mouth, hips bucking gently as he kept licking you through it, slower now, gentler, letting you ride it out while he murmured soft praises against your skin.

“Good girl… that’s it… fuck, you’re perfect.”

You were still panting, vision swimming, when he kissed his way back up your body—slow, wet kisses up your stomach, your chest, your neck—until he was hovering over you again, face flushed, eyes heavy with want.

He brushed your hair back from your face, cupped your cheek.

“You still okay?” he asked, voice so tender it made your chest ache.

You nodded, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him in.

“I want you inside me.”

He groaned, forehead pressing to yours. “Tell me if it’s too much. I’ll stop.”

“I know.”

You reached down between your bodies and guided him to your entrance, and the moment he pushed in—slow, thick, deep—you both gasped.

You were still so wet from his mouth that he slid in smooth, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt, panting against your mouth like he was holding back everything he had.

“Fuck—” he hissed. “You feel so good. So fuckin’ good.”

He didn’t move right away.

Just stayed there, cock buried deep, one hand holding your hip, the other cupping your face while he kissed you again—long, slow, passionate.

Then he started to move.

Slow, deep thrusts, hips rolling into yours with perfect pressure, every movement dragging his cock along your walls just right. You moaned into his mouth, your nails digging into his back as he fucked you with so much care it almost didn’t feel real.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Always.”

“Yours,” you breathed. “Only yours.”

He kept moving like he was making love to every piece of you. No rush. No greed. Just deep strokes and soft moans and the occasional whispered “I love you” against your skin that made your heart ache as much as your body did.

You felt the second wave building slow and heavy, tightening deep in your belly, and he felt it too—how your walls fluttered around him, how your legs tightened around his waist.

“I got you,” he panted. “Let go, baby. I got you.”

You came again with a broken moan, this one quieter, sweeter, your body curling into his as you clenched around him, crying out softly as the pleasure rolled through you.

He groaned and buried himself deep, hips stuttering once, twice, before he spilled inside you with a soft, desperate sound—forehead pressed to yours, hands gripping your waist like he never wanted to let go.

You stayed tangled like that.

Sticky. Shaky. Whole.

And when he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, both of you breathless and warm and a little overwhelmed, he kissed your cheek and whispered—

“We’re gonna be okay.

And just like that, the part of you that had been holding its breath… exhaled.

TAGS: @2elusional @cosmicaoii @kizsuki @kodzubaby

#my hero academia #smut #bakugo katuski #bakugo x reader #bakugou x y/n #mha #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo smut #bakugo fic

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