#this is to help me keep track of the shit i write

[mw00nie]

extra credit

you first see him on a tuesday.

10 a.m. political science. long, cold, fluorescent-lit misery. you only took it because the professor was rumored to be easy. except, twist, he now isn’t, and your attendance is locked in for the semester. brutal.

you always sit in the back. fake typing on your laptop, tabs full of shit you’ll never afford, pretending you’re gonna relisten to the lectures on your phone. spoiler: you won’t.

so, naturally, you start people-watching. it becomes your sport.

guy in front of you sexting someone at 10 a.m. on a tuesday? disturbing. girl next to you writing color-coded notes on an ipad that costs more than your rent? pretentious. two girls giggling over tinder and ranking guys like they’re judging cattle at a state fair? iconic.

then you see him.

front row. every single class. white hair, slightly too long, messy like he cut it himself or forgot to. hoodie with a bleach stain on the sleeve. glasses he keeps pushing up with his middle finger. backpack covered in pins that look suspiciously like anime.

the kind of guy who probably owns a sword. the kind of guy who turns in essays early and apologizes for formatting mistakes. the kind of guy who definitely gets hard when girls yell at him.

you watch him answer a question once, voice so quiet, you can barely hear it from your seat, and it hits you like a truck:

this guy is such a loser. i want him in my bed immediately.

you don’t do anything about it at first. just move closer, row by row, like a predator slowly circling.

he doesn’t notice. he’s too busy actually doing the readings.

every class, he types with those long fingers, hunched over his laptop like he’s coding the next great american novel. he frowns when the professor gets something wrong. he wears wired headphones. wired, for god’s sake.

you can feel it building in you every time he pushes his glasses up. every time he mutters a “yeah, i think that’s actually covered in the assigned paper by—” before trailing off, embarrassed.

you want to climb into his lap and ruin his academic career. you want to know if he’s as nervous with his hands as he is with his voice. you want to see how red his ears can get.

three weeks in, you finally snap.

you catch him right after lecture, halfway to the vending machines, headphones still hanging around his neck. his fingers are tangled in his hoodie strings, backpack slung over one shoulder, like he barely remembered to exist outside of class.

he stops in his tracks when you say his name.

“satoru gojo, right?”

he blinks. once. twice. like you’ve just pulled the fire alarm in his brain.

“…yeah?”

he’s taller than you expected. awkwardly so. broad shoulders slouched like he’s trying to make himself smaller. glasses sliding down his nose. messy white hair that looks like he towel-dried it and called it a day. he smells faintly like clean laundry and caffeine. you hate how much that does to you.

you lean in a little. tilt your head. smile like you know something he doesn’t.

“you’re smart,” you say. “painfully. the kind of smart that corrects the professor mid-lecture and then apologizes for it.”

he flushes, stammers. “i– only if they’re, like, wrong? sometimes?”

adorable.

you step closer. just enough to watch his pupils blow out a little. he’s blinking at you like he’s buffering.

“i need help studying,” you say sweetly. “and you seem.. helpful.”

his mouth opens. closes. “uh– sure?”

“great.” you tilt your head. “library at seven?”

he nods, slow and stunned.

you smile wider. “and if you’re good,” you say, voice low enough to make him swallow, “i might let you kiss me.”

you don’t wait for a response. just turn and walk off, backpack slung lazily over your shoulder.

when you glance back, he’s still standing there. frozen, mouth slightly open, entire brain fried like a cheap motherboard.

you laugh to yourself.

this is going to be so much fun.

he shows up to the library that night. you weren’t sure he would. he seemed like the type to overthink it until he got hives. but there he is 6:57, laptop in hand, adorned in what looked like a bunch of different stickers. the etsy type.

“hey,” you say, flashing a smile as he slides into the seat next to you.

he nearly fumbles his bag off the table. “hey,” he replies, voice quiet. “so… what’re you stuck on?”

you don’t even bother pretending to know. just hand him your notes with a shrug and start watching him instead.

he’s so earnest. brows furrowed. lips pressed together. squinting at your writing like it personally offended him.

you’re supposed to be learning about political theory, but all you can think about is what his mouth would feel like on your neck. how red his ears would get if you sat in his lap right now and pulled on his hoodie strings.

by the end of the night, he’s explained two chapters, drawn a chart, and unconsciously flexed his hands at least a dozen times.

you lean back, stretch, and smile at him sweetly. “you’re a really good teacher.”

he turns a little pink. scratches the back of his neck.

“…thanks?”

“don’t thank me yet,” you murmur. “you’ve got office hours again tomorrow.”

he swallows.

you don’t kiss him. not yet. you let him walk home in a daze, probably questioning whether he imagined the whole thing.

you make him wait.

over the next two weeks, you meet him three more times.

once in the library, once at a coffee shop, and once after class in an empty study room.

every time, he gets a little bolder. not much. just enough for you to notice.

his knees brush yours under the table and he doesn’t pull back. he teases you when you mess up a definition. he looks you in the eye a little longer than he did before, until you’re the one who has to look away.

“you’re learning,” you hum one night.

he just shrugs, smirking softly.

“you said if i was good, i’d get to kiss you.”

his voice is low. deeper now. like he’s starting to realize he has some kind of effect on you.

you smile, sweet and lethal.

“maybe next time.”

you invite him over on a thursday night.

you claim it’s for a “final review session” before the quiz. you text him your address, and tell him to wear something comfortable.

he shows up in another hoodie and sweatpants. his glasses are clean for once. his hair still a mess, but in a way that almost looks intentional.

you pretend to study for fifteen minutes.

fifteen.

after that, you crawl into his lap, straddle his legs, and tilt his chin up.

“still wanna kiss me?”

he doesn’t answer. just leans in and kisses you like he’s been thinking about it for weeks.

and god, he’s so warm. so eager. he kisses like he means it, messy and deep, hands hovering just shy of your waist like he’s scared to hold on too tightly.

you grind down once and he chokes on a moan.

“shit– wait–”

you pull back and grin.

“don’t tell me this is your first time.”

he goes red, but his eyes are sharp now, glinting under the low light of your room.

“…why would you think that?”

you laugh, breathless. “because you’re a loser. you raise your hand in lectures. you wear anime pins. you fumble your phone when i look at you.”

“so?” he murmurs, licking into your mouth, voice rough. “i can still make you cum.”

you blink. stunned.

he grins, slow and devastating. glasses slipping again, hands sliding up your thighs.

“wanna bet?”

you don’t even make it five minutes into the “study” session before he’s got you pinned to the couch.

your laptop’s open on some political science quizlet. long forgotten.

your panties are shoved halfway down your thighs, hoodie thrown on the floor somewhere, one of his hands gripping your jaw while the other is buried deep inside you.

“what happened to all that attitude?” he mutters against your mouth, voice low, breath warm. “thought you said i was a loser.”

you gasp, try to buck your hips, but he holds you still. his fingers curl just right and your entire spine arches.

“fuck– satoru–”

“say it again,” he growls, licking into your mouth like he’s starving. “say i’m a loser.”

you whimper. “you’re– fuck, you’re not–”

“hmm?” his thumb circles your clit, lazy and cruel. “what was that?”

you choke on a moan. it’s disgusting how wet you are. slick dripping down his knuckles, pooling under your ass on the cushions.

he’s still got his glasses on. slightly fogged. his hair’s messier than usual, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. he looks deranged. brilliant. completely in control.

and all you want is more.

“please,” you breathe. “just– fuck me– please–”

he pulls his fingers out and sucks them into his mouth like he’s tasting you.

“you ask so nicely,” he hums, grinning like the devil. “but i think you need a little warm-up first.”

you expect him to drop to his knees.

you don’t expect him to pull you by the hips and throw you over his face.

he lays back on the couch, one arm hooked under your thigh, and drags you down onto his mouth.

“oh– fuck–”

his tongue is obscene. messy. insistent. his nose brushes your clit every time he moves, and he groans like he’s the one getting off.

you’re gasping, grinding against his face, grabbing fistfuls of his hair like a girl possessed.

he pulls back once to breathe and licks his lips, eyes half-lidded, voice wrecked.

“sweetest i’ve ever had in my life,” he mutters. “could stay here all night.”

you cum on his tongue twice.

by the time he lets you down, your legs are jelly. your voice is half-gone. and he’s hard. painfully hard. under his sweatpants.

“c’mere,” he mutters, voice rough. “you owe me something.”

you drop to your knees without hesitation.

he’s thick, flushed, leaking at the tip, and way too big for the loser nerd image he gives off in class.

“god,” you whisper, wrapping a hand around it. “you’ve been hiding this from me?”

“was waiting for you to find out,” he says, pushing his glasses up, totally smug.

you stroke him slow, spit-slick and teasing, then lean in and drag your tongue up the underside.

his breath stutters. “f-fuck–”

you take him in deep, hollow your cheeks. he groans and grabs the back of your head.

“god, you’re good,” he mutters, hips twitching. “knew you’d suck cock like a slut.”

you whimper around him, moan at the taste, the weight, the way his thigh tenses under your hand.

he fucks your mouth slowly. not too deep, not yet.  just enough to make your eyes water.

when he pulls you off, you’re panting, spit dripping down your chin.

“get on the couch,” he says, voice dark. “hands and knees.”

you scramble up, bend over, and he groans.

“fuck– look at that.”

he presses himself up behind you, drags the head of his dick through your folds, and leans forward to whisper against your ear.

“you’re gonna let the virgin loser fuck you like this?” he murmurs, kissing your neck.

“yes,” you whine. “please– satoru, i need it–”

he thrusts in all at once.

you gasp, your eyes rolling back.

he’s so deep it makes your stomach flip, one hand digging into your hip while the other presses between your shoulder blades, pushing you down.

he starts fucking you like he’s been waiting years. filthy, relentless, fast and hard and deep enough you can barely think.

“not such a brat now, huh?” he pants. “still think i’m just some nerd?”

you’re moaning, crying out, face smushed into a pillow as he hits your g-spot with every thrust like a bullseye

he leans down, wraps a hand around your throat, and groans when you clench around him.

“tight little pussy,” he mutters. “knew you’d be like this. couldn’t stop thinking about it. mmph– gonna ruin you–”

he pulls out and flips you over ignoring your whine of protest. pushes your legs up to your chest, and drills into you.

you cum again, shaking, sobbing into his mouth as he kisses you through it.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, sweat on his brow, pupils blown.

“you want it inside?” he grunts, hips stuttering. “want me to fill you up?”

“yesyes– fuck, please–”

“god, you’re filthy,” he groans. 

he cums hard. deep, slow thrusts, hips grinding into yours, breath hot against your throat as he empties inside you.

you’re both panting. ruined. bodies tangled on your shitty dorm couch.

he pulls out slow, watches his cum leak out of you, and smirks.

“extra credit,” he says, breathless. “you definitely passed.”

[thebiggestfuckgiven]

dpxdc (and other misc prompts)

The Trio meets Differently

Cowboys and Aliens yeehaw

Fear Toxin

Jason Todd and Frank Castle

Jason Todd and Takashi Shirogane

The Trio at Comic Con

Danny and Barry, college roomies

[melto]

mad as fuck that as soon as i stopped tracking bas i got bad at them. like Damn maybe rogers had a point…

[apocalypticdemon]

finally did my goddamn dishes. and that wasn't all i managed to do today. fuck yeah.

had a meeting for thesis prep. bmv trip. rough plan for friday's discussion lecture. cooked dinner for the first time in like 3 weeks. read ~50 pages of academic text for 2 classes and a paper revision.

feels like i didn't do enough but. considering that yesterday i managed... going to classes and nothing else! and monday i was only capable of doing the required meetings i had, this is a pretty good day!

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[sixeyesonathiel]

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

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

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

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

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

the compressor’s peaking again.

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

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

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

ping.

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

you.

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

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

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

“no,” he types, then erases it.

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

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

i guess. send what you have.

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

flashback.exe

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

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

but you were different.

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

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

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

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

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

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

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

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

typical.

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

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

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

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

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

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

he watches again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he’s close. too close.

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

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

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

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

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

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

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

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

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

np.

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

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

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

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

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

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

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

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

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

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

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

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

to replay your giggle.

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

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

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

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

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

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

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

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

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

ping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he freezes.

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

you giggle.

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

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

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

satoru’s fingers twitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he tries to normalize it.

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

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

he tells himself he’s just learning.

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

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

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

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

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

the next class is worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a new text lights up his screen:

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

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

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

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

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

he hates himself.

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

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

it starts with static in his skull.

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

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

it doesn’t help.

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

satoru’s trying.

really.

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

2:03 a.m.

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

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

march haul (raw).mp4

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

click.

of course he does.

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

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

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

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

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

he knows it.

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

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

he does.

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

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he doesn’t blink.

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

he can’t breathe.

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

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

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

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

but it’s you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it’s been three weeks.

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

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

the worst part?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

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

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

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

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

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

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

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

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

baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

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

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

it starts with a ping.

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

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

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

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

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

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

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

satoru doesn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your silence makes him spiral.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

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

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

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

“i know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“mine.”

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

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

friday’s going to be filthy.

[famewolf]

I really love using Obsidian for D&D notes ... my spider web is growing

[vamplvs]

SLEEPY HCS WITH THE THUNDERBOLTS

INCLUDES -> yelena belova, bob reynolds, john walker, bucky barnes WARNINGS -> literally all fluff! no need to fear angst here (there is some minor swearing tho); walker calls the reader beautiful, and bucky calls them 'doll' NOTES -> y'all i feel crazy about thunderbolts. i haven't had a writing kick like this in YEARS. also, no one hate me for john in this one, he's my problematic wife, ok? also i want wyatt russell bad. anyways, my requests/asks are open! and as always comments and reblogs are much appreciated <3

YELENA BELOVA. — sleepy movie night? you got it. there's snacks, blankets, a random movie, and so many cuddles.

"are you sure you don't want to go to bed, love?" yelena mutters to you. the tv softly glows in front of you both, whatever period piece was playing long forgotten. you've been curled around her side since the movie began, but now your arm is draped over her and your head has fallen to her shoulder.

"no, i'm up," your voice is rough from sleep, but you pick your head up anyways and stretch. "see?" yelena rolls her eyes at your loopy, exhausted smile.

"whatever you say," she replies with a teasing smile.

"mhm..." you adjust your position under the blanket so you can be sitting upright next to her. but the blanket is just so soft and yelena is so warm, and before you know it, it's only a few minutes before you're curled against her once more.

yelena works hard to stifle her laugh when you fall asleep, but she lets you stay there. the movie plays on dully—the man in it has made some apparently irredeemable mistake that the woman he loves will no doubt forgive him for. yelena leans her head against yours, swearing that she'll get up once the movie is over so the two of you can sleep in a proper bed.

the next morning, when bucky is getting coffee he sees the two of you curled up on the couch and can't help but smile. it's nice seeing that yelena's found someone she trusts.

BOB REYNOLDS. — both of you are up late at night, entirely unable to sleep. you because you're working on tech for the thunderbolts new avengerz, and bob simply wandering the tower at night.

bob doesn't exactly sleep well these days, not after the mess with the void. it isn't unusual to find him roaming the tower at odd times, and this time it's your turn to run into him.

you're working in some old lab that you assume was tony stark's back in the day. your back aches, your fingers raw from tinkering with yelena's widow equipment, and you can hardly keep your eyes open. it's a miracle you haven't electrocuted yourself already.

"you're still up?" a voice softly speaks from the hallway.

your heart nearly stops right there and then. "holy shit!"

"sorry," bob steps into the dim lights of the lab, his hands up in a show of peace. "i didn't mean to scare you."

"no, no, it's fine! you're fine." you smile at him. "what are you still doing up, sweetheart?"

"i can't sleep," his response is sheepish.

you stand, stretching your arms above your head, and walk over to him. "let's see if we can do something about that." you pull him along by the hand, fingers entwined.

by the time you both get to bed, your eyes are heavy with sleep. you pull bob closer to you, letting his heartbeat lull you gently to sleep. the comfort of your body against his, a reliable weight to keep him still and grounded, has him dozing in no time.

JOHN WALKER. — he's the one up, unable to sleep. you're fast asleep and he just takes in everything about you. maybe it's the slight frown you have in your sleep, or the way your hair falls into your face just a little, but he's captivated.

john lays opposite of you on the bed, just tracing your features with his eyes. he takes everything in slowly: the flutter of your eyelashes, the curve of your cheek, the curl of your lips. you're so beautiful, and honestly, john has no idea how he got so lucky.

with his track record, it's a miracle you-

"why'd you stop?" you mumble, still half asleep, interrupting his train of thought entirely. his hands, which had been tracing patterns softly over your skin, have long been still.

"didn't wanna keep you up," he mumbles back, and you crack open an incredulous eye at him.

you grumble something under your breath that john can't quite catch before pulling yourself closer to him.

"it was nice," you say, sleep already calling your name. so john continues.

he traces abstract patterns from the nape of your neck to your shoulders to your back. he feels the way your muscles loosen beneath his touch and the way your breath evens out.

and you know what? fuck his track record. if he got lucky enough to be graced by you, he damn well won't mess it up.

BUCKY BARNES. — this time it's you who can't sleep, and it's a good thing bucky has a tendency to stay up obnoxiously late reading his novels despite his other old man tendencies.

a soft knock comes from the door, startling bucky from his book. it's too late for anyone to need him urgently for anything, so he's almost inclined to ignore it until your voice rings through the door.

"bucky? you still up?" you're tentative, almost wary, as you ask for him.

"yeah, doll, i'm up." he sits up, ready to open the door for you when you walk in wrapped in a blanket.

"can i stay with you?" you mutter, still standing a ways away from the bed.

without saying a word, he pats the spot next to him on his bed and leans back against the headboard, leaving enough space for you to curl up next to him.

"what're you reading?" your voice is muffled by his shirt and the blankets wrapped around you.

"the hobbit. mind if i keep reading?" you shake your head, listening to the steady beating of his heart.

"it was at this point that bilbo stopped. going on from there was the bravest thing he ever did. the tremendous things that happened afterwards were as nothing compared to it..." bucky's voice rumbles soft in his chest, gentle despite the intensity of the moments he read out to you.

[fic-girlie]

Can you write something about reader getting badly injured during patrol with Joel (they're in a relationship) and he has to patch her up. He's scared shitless of losing her, and he keeps talking and talking trying to keep her awake. Doing the whole "I know, I know, sweet girl, you're okay, you're gonna be just fine baby" soothing her. She also thinks she's not gonna make it and try to comfort him "please go back to Jackson, get safe. You know how much I love you, right?" But he's having none of it. He carries her and they find shelter and he patches her up, having to stay there for a few days until she's strong enough to move and he's by her side at all times. Happy ending please!!!!

Through hell

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: Joel risks everything to rescue you from raiders, then stays by your side as you both fight to heal—together. Warnings: established relationship, angst, kidnapping, violence, blood, caring Joel, happy ending

You can still remember the way the wind felt on your face that morning. Crisp and cold, like something out of a different life. You rode beside Joel through the snowy forest trail just west of Jackson, boots in stirrups, fingers tingling through worn gloves. He glanced over at you every now and then like he always did—like he couldn't help it, like your presence settled something in him that nothing else could.

“Let’s take the west ridge,” he said, voice low and rough. “Tommy said there’s been tracks out that way. Maybe just deer, but I don’t like how close it was to the lookout post.”

You nodded, shifting slightly in your saddle. The rifle on your back felt heavier than usual. Maybe it was the cloud cover, or the way the woods were too quiet, no birdsong, no wind through the evergreens—just the crunch of hooves on frostbitten ground.

Joel kept his horse close to yours, occasionally brushing your knee with his. Just a little touch. Just enough. Always enough.

“You warm enough?” he asked after a while.

You smirked, biting back a shiver. “You offering to warm me up, Miller?”

He grunted. “Damn right I am.”

You wanted to kiss him then and there, but you were almost to the ridge, and that part of the trail narrowed between thick pines. You had to ride single file. He went ahead.

That’s when everything started to unravel.

The crack of a gunshot rang out like thunder. Your horse reared and whinnied, startled. You barely had time to grab the reins before someone slammed into you from behind, knocking you clean out of the saddle.

Your body hit the ground hard. The air shot from your lungs. Boots stomped in the snow all around you, hands dragging you through the brush. You kicked and twisted, but the back of someone’s rifle slammed into your temple. Everything turned to white noise. Then black.

——

Joel didn’t see it happen. One moment, you were behind him—he heard the easy rhythm of hooves, trusted it like he trusted his own heartbeat. The next, your silence was too quiet. Wrong.

He pulled up on his reins.

“Sweetheart?” he called.

No answer.

He turned, only to find the trail behind him empty. Your horse, skittish and alone, was running off toward the trees.

“Shit.” His voice cracked.

He rode hard back down the trail, dismounted before the horse had even stopped. Snow was churned up where your body had fallen. Boot prints. Scuffle marks. Drag lines leading into the woods.

Panic rose in him like floodwater.

“Baby,” he whispered, barely breathing. “No—no, no, no…”

He dropped to his knees, fingers brushing over the snow where he found the tiniest smear of blood.

——

You came to in a dim, frozen cellar.

The air stank of mold and sweat, and your head throbbed so hard it made your stomach twist. You tried to sit up, only to find your wrists bound behind you with coarse rope, your ankles tied just as tight.

“Fuck,” you rasped. Your lip was split. You could taste blood in the back of your throat.

A man crouched in front of you—filthy beard, sunken eyes. One of the raiders. You could smell the rot on him.

“You’re awake,” he said, smiling like he liked the sight of your bruised face. “Good. We’re gonna have a little chat.”

You didn’t speak. Not at first.

“You from that settlement up north, ain’t ya?” he continued. “Jackson. That’s what they call it.”

You stayed silent. Bit down hard on the inside of your cheek. Joel had taught you well.

The raider’s grin slipped. He slapped you. Not hard at first. Then harder.

You barely flinched.

——

Joel didn’t sleep that night.

He tracked them through the woods like a man possessed. Every broken branch, every speck of blood—they were his lifeline. He could feel time slipping through his fingers like sand, and all he could see was your face. The way you looked that morning. The way you’d smiled at him through frost.

His chest felt hollow. Like if he breathed too deep, the pain would split him in two.

He found a glove of yours snagged on a bush just after dawn. The left one. You’d told him it always fit a little loose. He dropped to his knees again, pressing it to his mouth.

“Please,” he whispered, eyes shut. “Please hold on, baby.”

——

By the time the raiders realized Joel was close, it was already too late.

One of them had left the cellar door cracked open to smoke a cigarette. Joel saw the faint flicker through the trees, and that was all he needed.

He crept in under the cover of the storm rolling in overhead, knife already in hand. The first man didn’t even have time to scream.

The next two were too busy arguing over rations to notice their friend’s body cooling in the snow.

Joel’s hands didn’t shake. Not once.

They made you bleed. They hurt you. They took you from him. And he didn’t see red. He saw you—the way you sleep curled against his chest, the way you laugh with your whole body, the way you whisper his name like it means something holy.

He would’ve burned the whole fucking world down for you.

——

You heard the gunshots upstairs, then the screaming. Your heart thudded hard and fast. You tried to twist away from the wall, but your body was too weak, your vision doubling.

Then the door creaked open.

For a second, you thought maybe it was the end. That they’d come to finish what they started. Your heart slowed, ready for it.

But then you heard his voice. His voice.

“Sweetheart?” It cracked. Broke wide open. “Jesus—baby—oh my god—”

You couldn’t even lift your head. “Joel,” you whispered. “I—I knew you’d come…”

You barely registered the way he ran to you, how he dropped to his knees in the filthy straw, hands cupping your face like you were something fragile, precious, bleeding all over the place but still here.

“I got you,” he breathed, kissing your forehead. “I got you, baby. I got you. I know, I know—fuck—I’m here now.”

Your eyes rolled back.

“Hey—hey, no. Don’t do that.” His hand pressed firm against your ribs where they’d broken something deep inside. “Stay awake, babygirl. You’re gonna be just fine, y’hear me? You’re gonna be okay.”

You shook your head faintly, lips trembling. “You need to go. Get safe. Don’t—don’t stay out here. You know how much I love you, right?”

He made a sound that nearly broke you—a rough, wounded thing. “No. Don’t you dare say goodbye to me. You hear me? You’re gonna make it. I’m gonna carry you outta here, patch you up. We’ll find shelter. You just gotta stay with me, sweetheart. Please—please stay.”

Your head lolled weakly into his shoulder as he sliced the ropes around your wrists. Every movement sent fire through your body.

But he was there. His hands were on you, steady and sure. His scent—leather, snow, pine—filled your lungs.

Joel lifted you into his arms, holding you like something irreplaceable.

“I’m right here,” he whispered, over and over. “I got you. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

——

Snow is falling thick by the time Joel gets you outside. Heavy, wet flakes cling to your lashes, soak into your torn jacket. Your blood is warm on his hands, and that terrifies him more than the blood itself.

He cradles you tight against his chest, stumbling through the trees like a man drunk with grief, murmuring broken things into your hair.

“I got you, I got you—please, baby, don’t close your eyes.”

Your skin is cold. You’re shivering against him, twitching with pain every time he takes a step. He can feel the way your breaths stutter, shallow and rapid, like you’re trying to stay conscious through sheer will.

You whisper something into his collar. He can’t make it out at first.

“Say it again, sweetheart. I got you. I’m here.”

“Hurts…” Your voice is so faint it’s almost a breath. “It hurts real bad…”

“I know, babygirl. I know it does.” He presses a kiss into your hair, his lips trembling against your scalp. “You’re gonna be just fine, I promise. Just stay with me, alright?”

There’s a small hunting shack maybe half a mile out. He saw it once before, marked it in his head in case of emergencies. He’s never been more grateful for that steel trap of a mind.

He doesn’t let go of you the whole way there.

——

The shack is dark and empty, long abandoned. Joel kicks the door open with his boot, then shoulders it shut behind him. The place is barely more than four walls and a stove, but it’s shelter. It’s something.

He lowers you onto the cot as gently as he can, but you still cry out when your back hits the mattress. The sound slices through him like a hot knife.

“Oh god, baby—fuck, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I got you now, alright? Just hold on.”

He pulls a lantern from the shelf, sparks it to life, and sets it near the bed. Light spills over you, and Joel sees the full damage for the first time.

Your face is swollen, lip busted open. There’s blood dried around your temple from where they struck you. Bruises already forming across your ribs. Scrapes along your wrists where the rope had dug into your skin. And the worst of it—a deep, ragged wound in your side, stained dark through the torn fabric of your jacket.

Joel sways for a moment, steadying himself on the table.

“Jesus,” he chokes out. “Fuck.”

You’re still awake, barely. “It’s okay,” you whisper, trying to blink up at him. “You came. That’s all I—”

“No,” he snaps, dropping to his knees beside you, grabbing your hand. “Don’t you do that. Don’t you talk like it’s over. I’m not lettin’ you go, baby. You understand me?”

Your hand twitches in his, weak and shaking. “You don’t have to stay…”

He leans forward, forehead to yours. “I do. I will. You’re mine. I ain’t leavin’ you. Not now, not ever.”

He strips your coat off with shaking hands, cuts the fabric around the wound in your side, trying to see how bad it is. Blood wells up immediately. He curses under his breath, grabs his backpack, and tears it open.

“You gotta stay with me, babygirl,” he says, louder now, trying to keep your eyes on his. “You hear me? Keep talkin’. Say my name.”

“Joel…”

“That’s it. That’s my girl.” He pulls a bottle of alcohol from the bag, then stops. “This is gonna hurt, baby. I’m sorry.”

You nod faintly.

He pours the alcohol over the wound. You scream.

Joel almost screams with you. He grabs your hand and presses it to his chest, trying to anchor you to him.

“I know, I know, I know,” he chants, his voice cracking. “You’re doin’ so good, baby. Just a little more. Stay with me. Please stay with me.”

You’re crying now. Soft, quiet tears that slide down the side of your face.

“I don’t wanna die,” you whisper.

Joel goes still for a moment. Then he leans down and kisses your forehead, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“You’re not gonna die. You hear me? I didn’t go through all that just to lose you now.”

“I feel cold…”

He yanks the blankets from the foot of the cot, bundles them around you, climbs halfway into bed with you so he can hold you close. You’re limp against him, breathing shallow.

“I love you,” you murmur, barely audible now. “Joel, I love you…”

His jaw clenches. “Don’t you say that like it’s the last time.”

You laugh, a tiny broken sound. “Bossy…”

He lets out a breath that might be a sob. “Yeah. That’s right. I’m bossy. And I’m tellin’ you—you’re not goin’ anywhere.”

He stitches the wound as best he can with what he has. It’s messy and brutal. But you’re still breathing when he finishes, and that’s all that matters.

He lays with you the rest of the night, wrapped around your trembling body, murmuring to you over and over.

“I love you. I love you so damn much. You stay with me, babygirl. You got a home to get back to. We got a life. You’re not done yet.”

——

Hours pass. Then a full day.

He doesn’t leave your side. Not to eat. Not to sleep. Not to piss.

He cleans the blood from your skin with melted snow water, dabs ointment on your bruises. Keeps a hand on your chest just to feel it rise and fall.

You fade in and out, whispering his name each time you surface. And every time you do, he’s there.

“I’m here,” he tells you. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

——

The days pass slowly.

You drift in and out of consciousness at first, your body too battered to keep you awake for long. Each time your eyes open, Joel is right there—kneeling beside the cot, crouched by the stove, sitting with his elbows on his knees and his gaze fixed on you like if he looks away, you might disappear again.

His voice is always the first thing you hear when you wake.

“Hey, babygirl,” he whispers, soft and relieved. “There you are.”

It’s never louder than a hush. He’s calm now, calmer than he was when he found you, but the fear is still there—coiled in his voice, in the way he checks your pulse every hour, in how he sleeps sitting up with a hand resting gently over your ribs, like he needs to feel you breathing just to survive the night.

You try to talk sometimes, but it takes effort. Your throat’s raw, your ribs ache with every breath, and your sideburns where the stitches pull your skin tight.

He always shushes you.

“Don’t push it, sweetheart. You rest. I got you.”

And he does.

Joel keeps the fire going even when it smokes up the place. He feeds you water by the spoonful, holds a cup to your lips when you’re too weak to lift your head. He tears old clothes into rags and uses them to clean your wounds, dabbing with a tenderness that makes your eyes sting.

You cry once—not from the pain, but from the sheer way he looks at you. Like you matter more than anything else in this world. Like the fact that you’re alive is something sacred.

He wipes the tears from your cheeks with the edge of his sleeve.

“No more of that now,” he murmurs. “You made it, babygirl. You hear me? You fuckin’ made it.”

——

By the third day, you can sit up, leaning against his chest while he holds a hand pressed gently to your back. Your breath hitches when you move too fast, and Joel instantly tightens his grip.

“Easy,” he soothes, voice close to your ear. “Ain’t in no rush. You just take your time.”

You tip your head against his shoulder, breathing him in. He smells like wood smoke and worn leather and the comfort of home. His beard scrapes lightly against your temple as he presses a kiss there.

“I thought I was gonna die,” you whisper.

He shakes his head. “Don’t you say that.”

“I did. I thought—I thought I’d never see you again.”

Joel swallows hard. You feel the way it locks his throat.

“You know how much I love you, right?” you whisper.

“I know,” he says, voice thick. Then again, firmer: “I know. But you don’t get to say goodbye. Not ever.”

You nod faintly against his chest. He holds you tighter, cradles you like something fragile. Like something he almost lost and will never take for granted again.

“I should’ve been faster,” he mutters. “I should’ve known sooner. Should’ve—”

“Joel,” you interrupt, reaching for his hand. Your fingers are weak, but you manage to squeeze his. “You saved me.”

He stares at your joined hands for a long time.

“Damn right I did.”

——

The fourth day, you eat real food again—a half-burnt can of soup he found tucked in a cupboard. He feeds you from a spoon, making sure it cools enough before each bite, watching you like a hawk for any sign of discomfort.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” you mumble when he wipes your chin with a cloth.

His brow furrows, and he gives you a look—that look, the one he uses when you say something he refuses to even entertain.

“I’m takin’ care of my girl. Ain’t nobody else gonna do it.”

You smile, weak but real. “You’re a good nurse.”

“Don’t let Tommy hear that,” he says, smoothing your hair back. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”

You laugh a little, and it makes you wince, one hand flying to your ribs. Joel’s expression instantly shifts, guilt blooming across his face.

“Hey—hey, easy now.” He’s already reaching for the water, the pain meds, anything. “I’m sorry, baby. You alright?”

You nod, still smiling through the ache. “Worth it.”

He shakes his head and leans in, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You scare the hell outta me,” he whispers.

You whisper back, “I know.”

——

By the end of the week, you’re strong enough to walk a few steps, gripping Joel’s arm like a lifeline. He keeps an arm tight around your waist, supporting your weight as you shuffle to the stove and back. Each step is painful, but his praise makes it bearable.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, kissing the side of your head. “Look at you. Tough as hell.”

You grin. “Taught me that.”

——

When you’re finally strong enough to make the trip back to Jackson, he doesn’t stop touching you the whole way. His hand is always on you—your back, your arm, your fingers curled into his coat. Every few minutes, he checks you over like you might vanish again if he doesn’t.

And when the walls of Jackson come into view, when you both walk through the gates with your steps slow and your body held close to his side, people stare.

They see the bruises. The bandages. The way Joel looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

But they also see the way he holds you—like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

Tommy meets you at the gates. Maria’s there too, already calling for someone to prep the infirmary. But Joel doesn’t let them take you until he’s kissed your temple one last time.

“I’ll be right there,” he promises, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I ain’t leavin’ your side. Not now. Not ever.”

And you believe him.

Because even in the dark, even in the blood and snow and fear, he never let go.

[moyazaika]

housewife syndrome

yandere! rockstar x fem! reader

cw; possessive + obsessive behaviour, severe mental instability, paranoia, anxiety, violence, heavy nsfw themes, mdni 18+

genie's notes; commissioned piece by a very sweet anon ♡ thank you so much for trusting me with this absolutely stunning idea. i’ve always been a fan of domestic horror, especially of the spiralling housewife variety, so it was fun to explore a new dynamic and fresh writing style. <3

"welcome home, sweetheart!" the television runs on low volume in the background as you greet your husband with a knowing smile. you run through the motions as you always do, make sure to ask with the most innocence you can muster, "how was your day?"

feroze can make out the sound of gallant applause that indicates you'd been watching reruns of last night's award ceremony.

"such a fucking drag." your husband pulls you into his arms, buries his head into the crook of your neck with a long, satisfied sigh and takes his sweet, sweet time to breathe you in. "couldn't fucking wait to come home to you, meri jaan."

his answer remains the same as it is every other day, and you can't help but smile against his lips when he pulls you in to steal a little kiss; you sigh into his mouth, and feroze is so fucking overwhelmed by gratitude for the familiarity and comfort of this little routine the two of you have seemed to settle down into so well.

"i love when you call me that," you confess; my life.

you know just as well as him that, well—it wasn't always this easy.

"yeah," feroze hums. "i know you do, baby."

you weren't always so lovely for him, were you?

-

you're quiet.

though the two of you are sitting across from each other at the dining table, your attention is clearly elsewhere. conversation is slow, if not stagnant. it's a far cry from how talkative you usually are; and though he would never fucking admit it, least of all to you, he worries, for a fraction of a second, that things are slipping.

"meri jaan?" he sets down his fork very carefully, reaches for your hands over the table.

you blink, pulled away from wherever you'd been lost in your mind and back down to this moment that stretches on before you.

"oh, sorry, my love. what was that?"

feroze watches your eyes quietly track the movement of his fingers, sliding over your wrists, lingering, momentarily, on your pulse—nice and steady—before they intertwine with your own.

your gaze lands on him, then, expectant. he drags his thumb over your knuckles, glad to find they're soft; unmarred by any labour. he loves having you here, tucked away within the walls of this home he built just for you, away from the rest of the rotten world.

such a darling girl like you deserves to have everything taken care of for you. as far as he's concerned, the only thing on your mind should be him.

which is why the silence is beginning to irritate him, now. he's not really upset with you, doesn't have a reason to be, just yet—he's just wondering what it is you're so focused on. where do you keep going back to in that head of yours, and why aren't you here with him?

is this where it all falls apart?

—again?

"rosy?" you try. "is everything alright?"

"yeah," feroze's hazel eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, endearingly patient. "i just wanted to know how your day was."

"ugh, don't remind me." you stick your tongue out. "it was so boring. i woke up so late today and didn't really do anything interesting."

"shit, i'm sorry to hear that, baby."

your husband nods towards the television, still playing from inside the living room across the hall; the screen's bright colours reflect against the glass windows that take up half the wall. though the program is muted, he can still hear the echoes from the cacophony of applause ringing loud and true.

the four hour program's been running on loop on some of the smaller channels, and you really seem to enjoy tuning in, he's noticed.

it would be more difficult not to notice this new habit of yours, really. because if he's been counting right, this is the seventh time you've seen the whole thing through to the end.

"seems like you were at least watching the music thing again."

"well, when my stunning husband won half of the awards," you shrug coyly. "how could i not?"

"flattery won't get you anywhere," feroze deigns, though neither of you mention the involuntary curl to his lips as they lift into a small, self-satisfied smile.

"huh, that's strange," you frown, pull your hands away from his own and make a show of examining the elaborately stacked engagement ring and marital band wrapped around your finger. "if i seem to remember correctly, flattery is exactly what got me this ring."

"oh," he laughs. "is that so?"

"uhuh," you nod, still admiring the rings. they're big and they're flashy and there's no fucking chance anyone could ever miss the sight of them; make the mistake of misunderstanding what they mean. you're so obviously his, and fuck, it suits you so perfectly to belong to him.

i love you, he thinks fiercely. i fucking love you.

"you've got an ego, rosy." your knowing gaze flickers back to him, accompanied by a teasing smile. "bit of a praise kink, too."

"and yet, darling wife," he'll never tire of calling you that; never really overcome the thrill that overwhelms him when he sees you adorned in the markers of his devotion and tucked away all safe and sound. "you're the only person whose words mean anything to me."

"ohh, is that so?" you taunt, "whatever happened to 'flattery won't get you anywhere?'"

feroze takes in the sight of you. you're dressed casual, donned in a baggy old shirt and a pair of his softest sweats hanging low off your hips. comfortable in your own home, as you should fucking feel, you have no makeup on, and your hair is unkempt; overdue for a shower; but fuck if he cares.

feroze decides, within a moment, that he needs you—

now.

"come here, meri jaan. i'll show you."

"you greedy, greedy man," you chastise lightly, rising from your seat. "i've just fed you dinner and you're still salivating at my table."

feroze watches you make the small effort of pushing your chair in, before turning on your heel. you pause in the doorway for a second, spare him a knowing glance over your shoulder; "well? aren't you hungry, darling husband?"

he knows that none of it evades you; the nervous bob of his adam's apple as he swallows. the way his fingers are digging into the edge of the table to keep from sinking inside of you right here. his heart is racing; his pants are tight. though you're so willing to be his now, he remembers it wasn't always this easy.

"my love." feroze grits out, "i'm fucking starving."

you disappear into the hallway, mellifluous laughter like the loveliest song, echoing off the walls—inside of his head, for fuck's sake—as your husband follows faithfully behind you when you lead him into the bedroom.

dinner goes cold on the table. you never touched your plate.

upstairs, minutes later, your husband bottoms out inside of the welcoming warmth of your sweet cunt, just as your fingers brush against the butcher's knife tucked right underneath your pillow.

-

feroze gets you to come twice before he decides he has his fill. he's rummaging through your nightstand for the contraceptives he knows you keep in there. it's got less to do with what he wants and more to do with what he believes is best for the two of you.

it's not that he doesn't want children; he dreams of them often. a little baby swaddled in the softest fabrics, wrapping its entire hand around just one of his fingers. the sound of a second pair of footsteps excitedly running down the hall every time he comes home from the studio, from tour. something more to take care of. to keep you busy.

but your husband knows you.

and though he's always been selfish, he can't risk kids until—well, until he knows you won't try to kill them.

it's taken you years to accept him. he won't undo that.

feroze, so caught up in his thoughts, only really registers the blade until it's slicing into his skin, the sharp edge of it pressing against the side of his neck with just enough pressure to draw blood.

he is disappointed, though by no means surprised, to find you on the other end wielding the knife.

he turns to face you, abandoning his search. you're holding onto the hilt of your makeshift weapon with trembling hands, and though he's suddenly overcome by exhaustion—because, baby, how many more times are you going to pull this—an involuntary shiver runs down his spine at the sight nonetheless.

"jaan," he tries to reason with you in hushed tones; oh, love. "what are you doing?"

you dig the knife in just a little deeper, and he winces; "i hate you, feroze." the words sting, though the relative lack of conviction they’re laced with serves as a promising sign of reconciliation.

"i know, baby. can you please just put the knife down so we can talk like adults?"

he glimpses the almost imperceptible change immediately.

the lines of hesitation on your face; a flicker of uncertainty in your eyes. when your hold on the weapon looses just the tiniest fraction of an inch, he wastes no time in gently but firmly prying the knife from out of your trembling hands; tosses it underneath the bed where it lands out of your reach.

he’s getting better at this. gets through to you so much sooner than he used to.

you’re listening, now, aren’t you?

the thought of it makes him oddly proud.

"there we go," feroze says. you're still shaking, and though he wants so fucking desperately to pull you closer and console you—he's learnt to tread the waters carefully in times like these. you're evidently scared. obviously upset with him. he can give you a little room to breathe. “now do you want to use your words and talk to me properly?”

“i keep rewatching the awards show. every other winner had someone there with them. some girlfriend or wife they kissed before they went on stage. you’re the only one who—” you swallow, voice wavering. “i’m the only one who wasn’t there. i’m the only one who’s kept hidden away.”

“you don’t want to show me off.” the tears fall almost immediately. “you’re ashamed of me.”

there are millions of words in the english language, and millions more in his own. he’s put into words every fleeting feeling you’ve made him feel; spun both the most magnificent and mundane of emotions into beautiful songs and compelling lyrics and composed entire albums from nothing—and yet, somehow, in this moment all of it evades him.

"i spend all day stuck here w-waiting for you to come home, and when you do—i keep thinking about all those ceremonies and galas and parties you go to, rooms i can never follow you into—and i hate you. i hate you for how much you hate me—”

“i’m sorry,” feroze’s hands run up your spine, to lightly curl his fingers around the back of your neck. he tilts your head up so that you’re meeting his gaze; leaves you nowhere to look away, “meri jaan.”

his touch is so soft and so, so cold against your skin. you've always run warmer than him; but he thinks you might be burning up right now. maybe you've got a fever; or maybe you're just this delirious even without one. it doesn't fucking matter, doesn't change anything.

“i’m sorry for ever leaving you alone long enough to even think that. let me make it up to you. let me show you how much i adore you. let me build you back up again.”

“you can’t fix this,” you whisper.

he smiles, but it’s strange; doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “so you said the last time.”

-

hours later, you’re less of a sobbing wreck when he’s got you perched in his lap, and all curled up under his chin. “okay… then…” you sniff. your words are somewhat muffled as you bury your face into your husband’s chest. “i’m sorry, too. i didn’t mean to hurt you, rosy. i was just scared, i-i promise.”

"i know.” his knuckles wipe away the tears drying on your cheeks. “give me a kiss, please.”

and ever the sweet wife, you do; but your lips are trembling.

fuck, that’s—

shit.

—not going to work, is it?

with a gentle but firm hand, he pushes you down onto the bed and watches you land on your back amidst the dozens of pillows that decorate the bed. even then, the softest thing here is you. he forgets that, sometimes. let this be a lesson, he thinks to himself, to keep your fragility in mind. this is only further proof that you need him more than he'd even realised.

but you picked the right man, didn’t you? because none of that scares him.

the two of you have faced far more difficult times together; this is just a little hiccup in your life as a married couple. some story you’ll look back on and laugh about, when you’re all better.

so when you look up at him with wide, wet eyes and ask, "its just—can you promise me you still love me one more time?”

feroze regards you closely. you’re so beautiful. so fucking perfect that it overwhelms him. sometimes, he wishes you could see yourself the way that he sees you. though he’s always believed that may just scare you; knowing how deep his devotion really runs. things are fine as they are now.

well, mostly.

he has decided that he will retire from music completely, but the two of you can broach that topic when you’re in a better headspace for it. it’s been a long time coming. work keeps the money coming in, and he wants to spoil you but—he wants you to be happy, above all. you don’t really know what you’re asking for right now, but he has every intention of giving you exactly what it is you wished for.

he can’t give in when you beg to come along with him—but he can come and hide away next to you in this little pocket of the world that solely belongs to the two of you.

"you drive me to madness, my love. nothing about this life means anything if i can’t keep you happy.”

the two of you never had a white wedding; because he wanted to honour your union the right way and celebrate you as his culture deigned. so, yes, he never got to read you any vows, but he'd like to think you've come to know him well enough to understand he doesn't necessarily need to say something so sacred out loud for it to hold true.

"do you understand? i love you," he lowers his forehead against yours. “till death does us apart.”

you put your heart in his hands one more time, looking so small, so vulnerable beneath him. "you promise?"

"i promise," he closes his eyes and revels in the soft, sweeping feeling of your lashes fluttering against his own. "always and forever, meri jaan."

feroze loves you, of this he's certain.

he also knows that you fucking terrify him.

it's a small price to pay, if it means keeping you—

besides, he thinks, reaching once more for the contraceptive pills on the nightstand.

—marriage is all about compromise, is it not?

[papayainsectorone]

ice baths

summary: Though young and still learning, Kimi’s natural stamina and desire to prove himself lead him to push boundaries

content: 18+! smutty smut smut smut (consider this a warning), nsfw descriptions, fingering, no protection

word count: 5,5k

pairing: kimi antonelli x fem!oc

a thought: I....I just don´t know what to say about this, i just finished writing this 30 seconds ago when Kimi came up on TV for a pre race interview in Miami on his fucking scooter and ... this feels illegal haha enjoy

The physio room was quiet, humming with low fluorescent lights and the soft, rhythmic hiss of massage oil being pumped from a dispenser. Kimi sat on the edge of the treatment table, shirtless, hair still damp from his earlier run, cheeks flushed from exertion—or maybe something else. Something he was trying not to make too obvious.

Sergi, his physio, tilted Kimi’s head carefully to the side, stretching his neck.

Kimi groaned.

"Can you already prepare the ice bath?" Sergi asked, glancing your way.

“Uh—yeah. Sure.” You blinked, caught off guard. Not by the task. By the sound Kimi had just made.

You turned away quickly, cheeks warm, pretending the ice machine required your full concentration.

Still, you felt his eyes on you again.

You smiled. Subtle. Just enough to let him know you noticed. Just enough to invite him to keep looking.

He blushed. Fully. Bright pink down to his collarbones.

God, he was a boy.

But a very, very pretty one.

“It’s done,” Sergi finally said, clapping Kimi lightly on the shoulder. “Ice bath. Four minutes.”

It wasn’t the first time you'd been in the same room like this. You’d been shadowing under Sergi all week, watching training sessions, prepping hydration, tracking recovery metrics. But this—this had been happening from day one.

Kimi had been looking.

And not the fleeting, dismissive glance most teenage boys gave when they saw someone cute. These were longer. Curious. Almost confused—like he couldn’t quite figure out how you ended up near him.

When you glanced over your shoulder, his eyes dropped instantly. Guilty. Caught. Adorable.

You stepped aside as he walked toward the tub. He looked at it, then at you. Then back at the tub.

“You staying?” he asked, voice low.

You raised an eyebrow. “Should I not?”

“No, I mean—yes. I mean… it’s cold,” he mumbled, reaching for the waistband of his training shorts.

You leaned back against the bench, arms crossed, watching with more interest than you meant to show. He hesitated, then slid the shorts down, revealing tight black boxer-briefs underneath.

Nothing left to the imagination.

He caught you looking.

His ears turned red.

But you didn’t look away.

Kimi exhaled and stepped into the tub, arms braced on either side. The water hit his thighs and his whole body jumped. “Shit,” he hissed, his fingers tightening around the edge of the plastic.

“You’re not going to die,” you teased, walking over and crouching beside the tub.

“Easy for you to say,” he muttered, trying and failing to play it cool. “You’re not sitting in ice water in your underwear.”

Your eyes drifted down to where the waterline just hit his collarbones. His abs were tight, trembling slightly, his legs visibly tensed beneath the surface. His jaw clenched and unclenched.

Then he said it. Quiet. Not even fully confident.

“Maybe you can… help me warm up again in a minute.”

He looked stunned the second the words left his mouth. Like he hadn’t even meant to say them out loud.

Your lips twitched. “Oh?”

His eyes flicked to yours, uncertain—but he didn’t take it back.

You tilted your head, crouched beside the tub, one hand resting lightly on the rim near his. “That’s a bold request, Antonelli.”

Kimi laughed—awkward and breathy. “Was it?”

“You tell me.”

He looked away for a second, eyes flicking toward the door like he was checking if Sergi might walk back in. But you both knew the physio wouldn’t return until the timer beeped.

“No one’s stopping you,” he muttered.

Your smile deepened, and your fingertips brushed the edge of his hand where it gripped the tub. Just the smallest touch—but he stilled under it.

“So you want help warming up,” you said softly, watching him squirm beneath the question. “That’s new. Weren’t you blushing two seconds ago because I looked at your legs?”

He didn’t say anything.

Just looked at you.

Really looked.

Like he didn’t know whether to make a joke or let something real crack open between you.

You leaned a little closer, enough for your voice to drop. “You think I haven’t noticed the way you stare, Kimi?”

His throat bobbed with a swallow. “It’s not just staring.”

“No?” you asked, voice sweet. “What else is it, then?”

He shook his head slightly. “I dunno. Just—whenever you’re around I forget what I’m meant to be doing.”

You bit your lip.

That earnestness. That teenage honesty that slipped past filters. He didn’t even realize how much he was giving away.

Your hand ghosted along his forearm now, the water droplets beading and running where your fingers traced. “You always this distracted in cold baths?”

“Only when you’re next to me in tight leggings.”

You laughed—he made it sound innocent, but your stomach flipped anyway. Your fingers trailed back to his hand, slipping just slightly beneath his wrist. The contact was featherlight, but it sent a visible shiver up his arm.

He sucked in a breath. “It’s only supposed to be four minutes.”

You looked at the timer. “Still got two and a half.”

Kimi’s eyes dropped to your mouth.

You moved your hand again—now along his bicep, where his skin was warmer under the water. Your knees brushed the side of the tub, your body leaning in just enough to crowd his space without touching anything essential.

“You really cold?” you whispered.

He nodded, very slowly. “Freezing.”

“Hm.” You leaned even closer now, lips near his ear. “Poor baby.”

He tensed under the teasing, like the words hit lower than they were meant to.

Then he turned his face slightly, and you realized just how close you were—barely an inch between your mouths.

His voice was quiet, rougher now. “You’re not helping.”

You smiled. “Aren’t I?”

You didn’t kiss him.

Not yet.

But your thumb traced a slow, lazy line across his inner forearm, feeling his pulse skip under your touch. His boxer-briefs were soaked and clinging, the outline of him obvious now, impossible to miss even in the cold water.

He let out the faintest, helpless sound.

And the timer beeped.

You smiled and stood. “Four minutes. You’re done.”

Kimi stared up at you, dumbfounded.

You grabbed a towel and tossed it toward him, eyes glinting. “Dry off, Antonelli. We’ll see if you still need warming up once you’re not half-frozen.”

He blinked, grabbing the towel with wet fingers, his mouth slightly open like he had words but couldn’t figure out what to say.

You didn’t wait.

You turned and walked toward the locker benches—slowly, hips swaying just a little too deliberately.

And Kimi?

You could feel his eyes on you the whole way.

You didn’t make it far.

You’d barely reached the corner of the locker room when you heard the soft thud of wet footsteps behind you.

Then: “Wait.”

You turned—and he was right there. Hair damp, towel half-wrapped around his waist, droplets trailing down his chest. His face was flushed, pupils blown wide. And he looked like he’d made up his mind in the last five seconds.

“Kimi—”

But he didn’t let you finish. Just like last time.

His mouth crashed into yours with the kind of force that only came from pure, boyish urgency. He kissed like he couldn’t stop himself—messy, too fast, breathless—but god, it made your knees go weak.

You caught the edge of the lockers behind you to steady yourself, his hands still wet as they slid to your waist. He kissed like he’d been holding back for days. Maybe weeks. Maybe since the first moment your hands brushed while you passed him the resistance bands and he blushed so hard he had to look away.

You gasped when his lips left yours to trail down your jaw. “Kimi—slow down—”

“I can’t.” He mumbled it into your neck, kissing, biting just enough to make you shiver. “I’ve been thinking about it too much. I can’t slow down.”

His towel slipped as he pressed closer, his cold and damp and very, very hard against you. There was nothing shy about him now—not in the way his hands gripped your hips or how his thigh slid between yours, grinding just enough to make you gasp.

You let your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging gently. “You’re really not holding back.”

He looked up at you then, flushed and wrecked already. “I don’t know how.”

There was something so hot about the honesty. No games. No pretenses. Just a beautiful, breathless boy who wanted you badly and didn’t know how to pretend otherwise.

You kissed him again, slower this time, tongue teasing the seam of his lips until he opened with a soft whine. He groaned when you sucked his bottom lip, his hips rocking against yours instinctively. He was desperate, but trying—trying to make it good, trying to do something right even through the haze.

“Touch me,” he said against your mouth, voice cracking just a little.

You smiled. “Where?”

“Anywhere. Please.”

That please made heat coil deep in your belly.

Your hand dropped between you, brushing the towel aside completely, reaching in his boxers and when you finally wrapped your fingers around him—hot, already leaking, twitching in your grip—his knees buckled.

“Fuck,” he choked, hips jerking forward. “Sorry—I’m—fuck—”

You laughed softly against his neck, stroking slow and deliberate.

“I haven’t—I didn’t even—fuck—” He was panting now, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “I swear, I can go again. I swear.”

That only made you hotter.

You squeezed just slightly, thumb tracing the tip, and that was it.

Kimi whimpered and came.

Fast. Hard. All over your hand, your waistband, his own stomach. His whole body shook with it, face buried against your neck like he couldn’t stand to see himself lose it that quickly.

You held him there, gentle, fingers still trailing over his sensitive skin while he caught his breath.

“Shit,” he whispered again. “I didn’t mean—fuck, I didn’t mean to come like that.”

You cupped his jaw, made him look at you. “Kimi. You’re fine.”

He looked so embarrassed.

But also so wrecked. Eyes dark, mouth swollen from kissing, chest heaving.

“I can go again,” he repeated, almost pleading. “Give me like… two minutes. I swear. Just don’t—don’t leave.”

You grinned. “I’m counting on it.”

His breath was still ragged when he finally pulled back to look at you. His lashes were damp, cheeks still flushed, but his hands didn’t leave your waist. He held you like you might vanish if he let go.

“I didn’t mean for it to be that fast,” he said again, quieter this time. “You just… you’re so—”

You kissed him gently, interrupting whatever apology was about to come. “It’s okay, Kimi. Really.”

But he still looked like he had something else to say.

After a long pause, he asked, voice barely above a whisper, “Can I… touch you?”

Your heart thudded.

There was something about the way he said it—so shy, like the thought alone made his head spin, but he wanted to. Badly. And it wasn’t just lust. It was something tender in the way his fingers skimmed your hip, how he was looking at you like you were untouchable—but he still wanted to try.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. You can.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, searching. “You’ll tell me if I do it wrong?”

You smiled. “There’s no wrong. Just start slow.”

His hands moved tentatively, reverent almost, as he slid them beneath your shirt. The fabric rose inch by inch, baring your skin to the cool air. He kissed your shoulder, then your collarbone, lips soft, like he was still trying to prove he deserved to be this close.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

You helped him tug the shirt off, and when your bra followed, his breath caught. He stared like he couldn’t believe you were real, his hands hovering like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch.

So you took them, guided them to your chest.

And he groaned—actually groaned—when he felt you.

His thumbs brushed your nipples, watching your face as if every reaction you gave was a gift. And when you moaned softly, his eyes fluttered shut, like that sound alone could undo him all over again.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered.

You leaned in, nipped his jaw. “Only if you stop.”

He didn’t.

You could now understand why they called him the wonder child in Formula 1.

Because even now—barely out of breath, cheeks still pink, hands a little shaky—he was learning. Fast. Not confident, not exactly, but observant. Focused. Like he was reading you in real time and adapting with every tiny shift in your breath, every gasp that escaped your lips.

His fingers were unsure at first—slightly clumsy, like he didn’t know whether to squeeze or stroke—but he watched your face like it was the telemetry screen of a quali lap. Every whimper you gave him, every arch of your spine, he adjusted to it. Like he couldn’t not try to be better at this too.

When his mouth dipped to your chest, his lips were soft and hesitant. He kissed there like he was still convincing himself it was okay—that he was allowed to taste. But when he drew one nipple into his mouth and you let out a sharp gasp, his confidence grew. His tongue circled, tentative at first, then firmer, guided by your breathy “yes, just like that.”

He smiled against your skin.

That little bit of feedback clearly went straight to his ego.

Still, his hands drifted lower, down your stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of your leggings. He looked up at you again, flushed and slightly wild-eyed. “Is this okay?”

You nodded, and he took that permission like a green light.

He tugged them down slowly, revealing more of you, eyes flicking down and then back up like he was making sure he didn’t miss a thing. When his fingers slipped between your thighs, he sucked in a breath.

“God…” he murmured. “You’re—wow.”

You laughed, breathless. “Not much of a compliment, but I’ll take it.”

“No, I mean—” he looked up, lips parted, eyes dark, “I’ve never—this is... crazy.”

But still, he didn’t hesitate.

His fingers explored, tracing slowly, learning what made your legs shift, what made you grip the edge of the bench. At first, too soft, then a bit too fast, but every time you moaned or murmured something back—“slower,” “right there,” “don’t stop”—he adjusted. The way he focused on your reactions made your head spin.

And when he finally found just the right rhythm—just enough pressure, just the right spot—you swore under your breath, and his jaw clenched.

“I’m doing it right?” he whispered, breath catching.

You let out a soft, broken laugh. “Very right.”

His grin was a little crooked, a little boyish—and full of wonder. He kept going, fingers slick and steady now, one hand bracing on your thigh as the other worked you. The trembling in your legs only seemed to make him more determined.

“Tell me when,” he said, voice almost reverent.

And when your hips bucked and your back arched—when you came undone on his fingers—he looked like he’d just won a Grand Prix.

You were still catching your breath, your thighs trembling around his hand, when you felt him stiffen—really stiffen. Not just his fingers now, but all of him. He was still inside you, slow and gentle with his movements, but something about the way you clenched around him—reflexively, instinctively—sent a visible jolt up his spine.

His lips parted like he was about to say something, but then he exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes fluttering closed. "Merda…"

He shuddered.

Just a small squeeze, a shift in your hips, and you felt it—the unmistakable way he tensed and gasped, like someone had pulled the air from his lungs. His forehead dropped to your shoulder for a moment, and his fingers stilled inside you.

“Cazzo…” he muttered, voice tight and ragged. “I—I —”

You blinked, and then realized. His boxers were soaked at the front. Still tight around his hips, but dark and damp now where he’d just—

He looked up at you, horrified and flushed. “I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t even—shit.”

You bit back a grin. He looked devastated, like he’d just crashed into a wall at turn one.

“Kimi.” You touched his face, gently.

He looked up at you like you’d just handed him a lifeline. “It’s not okay. I didn’t even… I didn’t get to do anything for you.”

“You did,” you said with a soft smile, squeezing his wrist where his hand still rested between your thighs. “Very much.”

His mouth opened, then closed. He looked utterly lost.

You leaned closer. “Besides,” you whispered, brushing your lips over his cheek, “you’ve got stamina, right?”

His eyes lit up, like something in him clicked. His breath caught as you kissed just beneath his ear.

“I… I do,” he said, more to himself than to you. His voice cracked a little, but his eyes held fire now.

He sat up straighter, jaw tight. “I can go again. I want to go again.”

And this time, there was no hesitation in the way he reached for you.

His mouth crashed into yours, all teeth and heat and desperation. You barely registered being lifted and eased back until your shoulder blades hit the narrow locker room bench. It wobbled beneath you, squeaking faintly against the tile, but the way he gripped your hips left no room for second thoughts.

He shoved his boxers down just enough to free himself—already hard again, thick and flushed—and lined himself up with a breathless groan. One deep thrust and he was inside you again, filling you so suddenly you gasped.

The stretch made your eyes flutter, but there was no time to settle into it—he was already moving, fast and rough, hips snapping with a kind of urgency that bordered on frantic. The bench rocked under both of you, and his hands tightened on your thighs like he was holding on for dear life.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Too good, it’s—fuck, I’m not gonna last—”

You could feel it. He was right there on the edge again, the way his rhythm stuttered, how his thighs trembled against yours. But you weren’t there yet—your body straining for more, that tight coil inside you still winding, aching.

“Kimi,” you gasped, grabbing for his wrist. “Touch me.”

His eyes snapped to yours. Understanding hit in a rush, and he didn’t hesitate. One hand slid between your bodies, fingers slick with sweat and your arousal, and found your clit.

The moment he started rubbing—messy, desperate, but exactly what you needed—it hit you like a wave. You arched, cried out, everything tightening as the orgasm slammed into you, hard and sudden. Your body clenched around him, and that was it.

He came with a broken sound, hips jerking deep inside you as he spilled into you. Hot. Endless.

Neither of you moved for a moment. Just panting. Trembling.

Then reality hit him.

“Wait—fuck—” His voice cracked. “I didn’t use a condom. Shit. I didn’t even—”

You opened your eyes to see him staring at you, wide-eyed, breath shallow.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said quickly, his hands shaking. “I wasn’t thinking—I just—” He swallowed hard. “Are you on anything? I should’ve asked. Shit.”

You reached for him, found his face with both hands, and gently pulled him down until your foreheads touched.

“I’m on the pill,” you said softly, steadying your breath. “It’s okay.”

He blinked, stunned. Still braced above you, his chest heaving.

“I mean it,” you whispered. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His face twisted—relief, guilt, awe, all crashing into each other—but he nodded. “I just—fuck. I don’t usually lose control like that.”

You smiled faintly. “Maybe you needed to.”

A beat passed. Then, slowly, he pulled back.

And when he did—when he slipped out of you, both of you still so wet, so raw—his breath hitched.

He stared.

Your legs were still open, thighs trembling, and his cum was already starting to spill from your lips, slow and thick, slicking down to the bench.

“Dio mio,” he whispered. His voice dropped to something low, reverent.

His fingers ghosted over your thigh, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“You’re…” He shook his head once, lips parted, still breathless. “You’re so full of me.”

You watched his face, the stunned hunger there. He looked like a man who’d just witnessed something sacred.

[matchingbatbites]

Eddie doesn't like sports.

Well, okay, that's not technically true. Growing up in the deep south left him with an ingrained interest in college football that he's not sure he'll ever be able to shake, but at least he can understand that game. He doesn't know a single fucking thing about hockey.

The rest of the guys had been excited when Chrissy said the band had been offered tickets to see the local NHL team. He was upset by how quickly he'd been outnumbered, but the boys had plied him with the promise of violence on ice, and that was enough to sooth the betrayal, at least a little.

Which is how he finds himself here, smushed between Chrissy and Gareth and not really as engaged as he should be, watching a bunch of men run around on the ice - sometimes literally, which is crazy. There has been a little violence though, so that's something at least.

Eddie blinks when Chrissy hands him a small dry erase board and a couple of markers that she pull from her bag. "What's this for?"

"You're famous, Eddie. The arena staff knows we're here, which means we're probably going to be on camera. I figured you could entertain yourself with some appropriate messages. Appropriate," she reiterates, and Eddie grabs at his chest like he's been shot.

"You wound me! As if I would ever deign to flash the cameras with a message that's anything less than the pinnacle of wholesome!"

Chrissy rolls her eyes but smiles - ever used to his dramatics by now - and just turns back to the game. Right, sometimes it's easy to forget that Chrissy is actually a sports person.

Eddie gets to work on his first message, not entirely sure when they're going to be the focus of the large screen above them. Chrissy glances over to see what he's writing and just sighs, and Eddie can't bite back his grin.

It's actually not too long before the announcer mentions something that isn't related to the game, and then-

"With nearly twelve million monthly listeners on Spotify, please welcome local metal band, Corroded Coffin!"

Eddie looks up to see their faces on the screen and grins as he turns his board around, showing off the LOOKIN 4 HUSBAND he's written in block letters. There's a mix of cheers and laughter from the crowd, and Eddie can't help but give a joking wink to the camera before he's laughing as well.

Chrissy smacks him on the arm and says "I can't believe you," but she's smiling as well. Eddie just shrugs and cleans the message from the whiteboard, freeing up space for him to doodle in between catching glances at the game.

It's a little bit later when a big fight breaks out, and a few players from each team are sent to the- box? The box. Eddie watches the big screen as the camera follows one of the players, tracking the man as he steps inside the little booth and rips his helmet off in frustration and- holy shit.

The guy is fucking stunning; his jaw, his nose, his sweat-damp hair and the beauty marks scattered across his skin like stars. Eddie wants to get closer, wants to know the color of his eyes and smooth the crease between his brows, wants to shove his fingers into that pretty, pink mouth-

And then the camera changes, going back to the players on the ice, and Eddie blinks like he's been released from a spell. He turns to Chrissy, one hand grabbing at her arm as he says "Who the fuck was that guy?"

Chrissy glances at him but keeps most of her attention on the game. "Harrington? He's literally the captain of our team, Eddie. I know you're not super into this, but that's kind of a hard thing to miss."

The man huffs a little as he releases Chrissy's arm. "I know literally jack-shit about this game, Chrissy, nothing is hard to miss."

Eddie takes the chance to re-write his white board before turning it to face outward, hoping that some cameraman will take pity on him and put him back on screen. He's not sure how long Harrington has in what is essentially timeout, but Eddie keeps his eyes on him all the same, glad that they're actually not too far away from the box.

It's a couple of minutes later when the announcer says "Looks like our friends Corroded Coffin have another message, this time for team captain Steve Harrington," and Eddie doesn't need to look to know that the screen is showing his new sign: #14 U R PRETTY. DATE?

He sees Harrington - Steve - look up, and watches as the frustration melts from his face, only for the prettiest pink blush to spread across his cheeks and ears. The guy laughs - and christ, Eddie didn't think he could get any more beautiful, but here he is - and doesn't hesitate to nod, even makes a little call me motion like he knows Eddie's watching him.

Eddie beams and nods back, laughs when the other player in the box shoves Steve playfully and makes a comment that deepens the blush on his face. He gets a couple of shoves and smacks from his own friends and a bewildered "I can't believe you just did that!" from Gareth.

Chrissy leans into him as he cleans the board again. "Hockey's not so boring now, is it?" she says, and Eddie can't help but agree, his eyes never leaving the ice - leaving Steve - for the rest of the game.

[mossy-rock-in-a-field]

Several weeks ago, my retirement-age mother requested that I play Baldur’s Gate 3 for her because she has trouble with controllers/keyboards and wanted “to see what all the fuss is about with that cute wizard boy.” For context, my mother and I have done this sort of thing in the past with certain RPGs (dragon age, mass effect, etc.), but it’s been a few years since she’s personally requested a game like this. Basically, I control her Tav but let her make all the choices so she can determine how the story plays out without worrying about mechanics. She treats it like a choose-your-own-adventure book.

Anyway, here is a list of some of the things my mother has said and/or chosen to do throughout the course of BG3 in no particular order:

She is (obviously) romancing Gale. She is quite smitten with him and his passion for books and learning; she also thinks he’s polite and qualifies as “relationship material.” She also REALLY likes the things he’s said about his cat so far (my mom is a cat lady), so I know she’s gonna flip shit when we meet Tara in Act III.

She’s playing a normal druid Tav with a generally good alignment. Her favorite spell is Spike Growth because she thinks it’s hilarious whenever enemies walk into the AOE and die. I usually end up having to cast it at least once per battle per her request. Sometimes twice.

Contrary to her alignment, my mother tasks me with robbing every single chest, crate, barrel, and burlap sack we come across; this also includes people and their pockets. The party is always at max carrying capacity. ALWAYS. She doesn’t like selling things because “what if I need them.” The camp stash is in literal shambles. There is no hope of organizing it. She’s got like fifty seven sets of rags and a billion pieces of random silverware.

She MUST talk to every animal and corpse in the game. I think five hours of her total playtime so far (47ish) has been spent speaking to animals as many times as humanly possible. Like, I was thorough in my own playthroughs, but this is on a whole other level.

She did NOT get Volo’s lobotomy, but she did let Auntie Ethel take her eye in hopes of a cure for the tadpole. I did not understand the logic then. I still do not understand it now.

She is far more interested in fashion than equipment stats. Do you have any idea how much gold I’ve had to spend on dyes just to make things match? SO much. Same vibe as that “please someone help me balance my finances my family is starving” tweet but instead of candles it’s thirty thousand fucking bottles of black and furnace red dye.

We broke the prisoners out of Moonrise, but they got on the boat too early and bugged the fight by leaving Astarion and Karlach behind. Wulbren Bongle somehow got stuck in combat mode even after engaging the cutscene on the docks below Last Light; he he kept trying to run ALL THE WAY BACK TO MOONRISE nine fucking meters at a time while I frantically tried to finish the fight with the Warden, otherwise Wulbren would have run straight into the shadow curse. (I would’ve let him go; fuck Wulbren Bongle, all my homies hate Wulbren Bongle. But my mom didn’t know that, and she wanted to keep him safe. So.)

She had me reload a save like eighteen times to save the giant eagles on top of Rosymorn Monastery. Wouldn’t even let me do non-lethal damage just to get past things. I think getting that warhammer for the dawnmaster puzzle took us like an hour and a half alone. (Yes, I know you can use any warhammer, but SHE didn’t.)

She’s started keeping an irl notebook to keep track of her quests between play sessions. She writes down ideas and strategies when she thinks of them during the week, then brings them to her next game session at my house. I think she wrote about three pages on possible approaches to the goblin fortress alone.

She insists that I pet Scratch and the owlbear cub before every single long rest, no exceptions. Sometimes I have to do it multiple times until she is absolutely sure that the animals know exactly how much she loves and cherishes them. She has also commissioned a crocheted owlbear plush from a friend of hers and is very excited.

I’m sure there’s a bunch of stuff I’m forgetting, but those are some fun things I thought of. She’s enjoying the game and is telling all of her retired friends to get it and play it for themselves. She asked me “what is Discord” yesterday and I think my life flashed before my eyes.

anyway shout out to my mom for being neat

Part 2 — Part 3 — Part 4 — Part 5

[thejukeboxzero]

@colorlessjay god bless lunch breaks for giving me the chance to write more of these shenanigans, enjoy

__________

“Dean, look.”

Dean looks down at Jack, who’s been dutifully trailing him around Sam’s ridiculously sized university campus for the better part of an hour, bee-themed bag bouncing on his back.

Jack waits until he’s sure Dean is looking then jumps up and down, the soles of his sneakers lighting up as they hit the sidewalk. When he’s done he looks up at Dean with a proud grin, like he knows he’s the coolest kid on the playground.

“I’m jealous.” Dean manages to respond before looking around the wide outdoor common space, “You sure you don’t know where your dad works?”

Dean had originally intended to just return Jack to the curb he accidentally kidnapped him from, but after waiting around for a few minutes he realized that Jack’s dad had probably already run off searching for the elementary schooler and that he should try and track the guy down, maybe apologize for the heart attack that comes with losing your kid.

“He works here.” Jack answers with a nod, “He teaches big kids about stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

Jack shrugs, now distracted by a potato bug crawling its way in front of him.

“Really helpful, kid…” Dean mumbles, scrubbing a hand over his face. They’ve had this conversation maybe a dozen times and the answers always remain the same.

He’s tried calling Sam, hoping he’d at least be able to show Dean where he can return this kid, maybe a front office or security booth? But the little shit hasn’t been answering, probably too busy shoving his nose in pre-law books to even realize he was supposed to be outside an hour and a half ago.

“Dean, Dean-” Jack's tugging on his coat now and Dean, ever so slightly, regrets telling Jack his name, “Dean-” 

“What’s up?”

“Where does your daddy work?”

‘Hell, hopefully’ Dean thinks, unable to stop the way the venomous thought snakes into his mind, “He’s uh- He doesn't work anymore.”

“Where do you work?”

“I work at a place called ‘The Roadhouse’.” He tries to be as vague as possible, not wanting to be the one who explains the concept of a bar to Jack.

Jack frowns and cocks his head to the side suspiciously, a weird little habit he keeps doing, “Roads don’t have houses.”

The child's words sound accusatory and Dean finds himself needing to defend himself, “Yeah well… This one does. We keep it at work as a pet.”

He expects Jack to call him a liar, or to cock his head more like the change in angle will help him interpret Dean’s words, but instead he just gasps and smiles widely, “You have a pet!? Wow! We don’t have any pets, I really want one though!”

Dean clutches the handle of Jack's bag and begins to lead him away, towards the north end of the campus where he’s like 10% sure Sam should be, “What kind of pet do you want?”

“A snake!”

The kid just keeps getting weirder.

“A snake huh, that’s…” He doesn't want to insult Jack but snakes are just plain creepy.

Jack doesn't seem to notice Dean's distaste, too busy peering back over his shoulder, probably still trying to look at that bug.

He gasps in delight, “Dean!”

Dean doesn't stop, he can’t, he needs to get this kid to someone so he can go grab Sam, go home, and sleep until he becomes one with his memory foam mattress.

“Yeah, kid?”

Jack grins widely at him, “I see my Dad!”

“Where?” Dean whips around, tightening his grip on Jack, ready to run after whoever Jack points at and give him back his kid.

It's weird though, at first he only sees Sam, standing stock still about ten yards away, his face a mixture of mortification and pure horror.

Then Dean's jaw lights up with a crack of pain, his vision going white for a moment, and he’s suddenly on his back, sprawled out on the sidewalk with a metallic taste in his mouth.

A furious face appears above him, electric blue eyes glaring down with murderous intent, and Dean feels what he’s pretty sure is a knee pressed painfully into his sternum, pinning him to the ground as he wheezes, trying to regain the wind that has been knocked out of him.

“Hi, Daddy!” Jack's delighted voice is barely audible over the ringing in Dean's ears.

“So you’re his Pops-” Dean grumbles to the furious man above him, turning to the side and spitting out a glob of blood, “Awesome.”

_____

<<First│<-Prev│Next ->

[bloomzone]

2025 : #22 How to LOCK IN

✒️..You overwhelmed. u keep saying, "I need to get my life together," but you don’t even know where to start. That feeling being stuck in ur own head, paralyzed by everything and nothing at the same time it’s real ikr I've been there but there’s a way out of this messy shit is to locking in. Locking is when "u stop reacting, and you start creating" . You start showing up for yourself like you matter because you do but how .. ?

1. SET GOALS & INTENTIONS

Before anything else, you need direction. When life feels messy, it’s usually because you're reacting to everything instead of moving with purpose. So start with a pause. Ask yourself: What do I want my life to actually look like? Not in vague terms like "success" or "happiness" but specifically. What kind of mornings do you want? What kind of work fulfills you? What kind of people do you want around you? What does peace look like for you?

Now set intentions. An intention isn’t just a goal it’s a way of being. A goal says "I want to lose 10 pounds." An intention says "I want to treat my body like it matters." That's the difference. Intentions give your goals a soul. Write both down . This is your why and you're going to need it when things get hard then u will remember to keep u going

2. KILL DISTRACTIONS

When life feels messy, the first thing you have to do is quiet the noise. And I don’t mean just the literal noise . I’m talking about the mental clutter: endless scrolling, group chats with no purpose, random content you consume that makes you compare yourself to others (hear me out) All of it is stealing your focus. You can’t figure out your life if you’re constantly filling your brain with everybody else’s.

Start by auditing your digital life. What apps do you open as soon as you wake up? What’s constantly grabbing your attention but giving you nothing real back? If it doesn’t help you grow, if it doesn’t calm your mind, if it doesn’t fuel your creativity it’s time to let it go. At least for now. Silence can be uncomfortable at first, but within silence lives clarity. And clarity is the seed of change.

3. FLIP THE MENTAL SWITCH

This part is important as setting goals . If your life feels off track, you have to make a hard decision with yourself: Am I going to keep living like this, or am I going to do something about it? This is where you flip the switch. And flipping it means choosing to no longer accept a half-lived version of your life. It’s the moment where you say, "I’m tired of feeling behind. I’m done wasting time."

You might not know how to fix everything yet, but the decision to lock in is the beginning. This switch is an energy shift. It’s the point when you stop waiting for motivation, stop waiting to feel "ready," and decide that showing up is no longer optional. You become your own motivator. You stop asking, "Can I really do this?" and start saying, "Watch me." It’s about becoming unrecognizable to your past self, one action at a time

4. CONTROL YOUR SPACE

When your life feels messy, often your space reflects it ofc . Look around your room. Your desk. Your phone. Your inbox. Is it all chaos? Then your mind will be too. You don’t need to do a full makeover you just need to create order. Clean your room like you're clearing your head or like someone important will come in organize your stuff like you’re organizing your next move.

When your physical environment feels chaotic, it signals your brain that you’re not safe, not grounded, not focused. And that’s exhausting. You deserve a space that supports the person you want to become. Light a candle. Open a window. Get some sunlight in . Your space should be a place where change can happen. Because once your space feels clean and calm, your mind starts to follow.

4. FUEL YOUR BODY

You can’t lock in if you’re running on fumes. That foggy, tired, heavy feeling you’re carrying A lot of it is physical. You’re probably dehydrated. You’re probably not sleeping enough. You're probably surviving on caffeine and chips or whatever. And I get it when your mind is a mess, eating right and sleeping well feel impossible.

But your body is the machine that gets you out of this rut. If your body is crashing, your mind can’t focus. Your emotions spiral more easily. Start small: more water, less sugar. Stretch your body in the morning. Take deep breaths. Cook for urself , go outside. Move your body. Fuel it. Your energy and mental clarity will thank you. You don’t have to go from 0 to gym rat. You just have to treat your body like it matters.treat your body like how u will treat your child

5. FOCUS YOUR MIND

Right now, your thoughts are probably bouncing everywhere. You feel overwhelmed because your brain is trying to solve everything at once. But focus isn’t about doing everything. It’s about doing the next thing.

And to do that, you need clarity. You need to know what matters right now. not next week. not next year. right now. What’s one thing you can finish today that moves you forward? Is it doing laundry? Submitting an application? Journaling your feelings? Focus on that doing your homework ?. Give it all your attention. Turn ur phone off and pour into that one thing. Get used to being present. That’s what real focus feels like your full self showing up to a single task.

6. OWN YOUR TIME

When your life is a mess, time just slips through your fingers. Days go by and you don’t even know what you did. That stops now. You need to get intentional. Before bed, plan tomorrow. Write three things you want to accomplish. Block off your time, even if it’s just: wake up 1h before ur usual time , workout , cook breakfast... . It doesn’t have to be extreme. It just has to be deliberate.

Think of your time like currency. Once it’s spent, you don’t get it back. So don’t spend it on guilt, fear, overthinking, or distraction. Spend it on action. On healing. On building something that matters.

7. ALIGN SPIRITUALLY

Here’s the part no one talks about when you're in a mess: your soul is tired. U feel disconnected. You might not even remember what peace feels like. Locking in isn’t just about habits It’s also about realignment.

You are more than your productivity. You are more than your checklist. So pause. Sit with yourself. Be still. Breathe. Talk to God, the universe, your ancestors whatever u believe in , journal . Let your spirit speak too . Let your pain surface. Let yourself feel again. That’s where the answers you’re begging for will show up always have some minutes everyday whenever in the morning or night to sit and talk to urself and let everything out (negativity) .

8. EMBRACE DETACHMENT

Detachment isn’t about not caring it’s about caring from a place of peace not panic. When you’re locked in, you learn to release your grip on things you can’t control: people’s opinions, outcomes, and timing. You stop chasing, and instead, you start aligning. You don’t beg for energy, attention, or results you trust that what’s meant for you is flowing your way. The art of detachment is what keeps your power close. You give your best and focused, but you’re no longer shaken by what doesn’t go as planned. That’s is called control .To practice detachment, start by identifying what’s stressing you out or what you’re obsessing over ask yourself if it’s something you can change or if it’s beyond your control or out of it . Then, consciously let go of the attachment to that outcome or person. This doesn't mean you stop caring it means you trust that whatever happens is part of the journey and that it will all unfold as it’s meant to. You can practice detachment by shifting your focus back to what you can control your actions, your attitude, and your peace of mind. With time, detachment helps you remain calm, clear-headed, and more connected to your own path without being weighed down by the uncontrollable.

If your life feels messy, that doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you’re being called to level up. To stop floating. To stop waiting for someone to save you. Locking in isn’t boring it’s freedom. It’s how you take back control. And once you feel that click you’ll never want to go back.have a good luck 🍀.

@bloomzone

[taeyongdoyoung]

chase and attract

summary: your best friend decides to fulfil yet another one of your freaky shared fantasies... pairing: chan x reader genre: smut, best friends to ??? warnings: cnc/primal play, chasing in a forest, public indecency but there are no witnesses, fingering, finger-sucking, doggystyle, unprotected sex, praise, degradation, reader wants to use the safeword but doesn't, reader experiences subdrop, insecurities, crying, aftercare, pet names, the word daddy is mentioned but after they're done having sex, discussion of future scenario 👀 author's note: hello hello, this is the second part of my wolf & bunny series, i think i'll write one more to tie up the loose ends 🤍 part one & part three word count: 1.7k

After a number of discussions and precautions, you and Chan are finally ready to embark on your next sexscapade. He's reassured you multiple times that he knows the forest well enough that you won't get lost and as a safety measure, he brought a compass and his phone. You purposefully leave yours in his car to further heighten the feeling of danger you two had in mind.

“Are you ready?” Chan asks you gently.

“Kinda. I'm really nervous, Chris,” you confess, your hands shaking in your lap as you are still sitting in the passenger seat.

“Remember that you can stop this at any moment, right?” he reminds you sweetly.

“I know that,” you sigh. “But I want this, I really do.”

“Okay, then, there's nothing to be nervous about. You know I'll keep you safe. Always, yeah?”

You nod, trusting him completely, despite how insane this whole thing might sound to a stranger. You are fully aware that Chan has your best interest at heart.

“I'll give you a five-minute headstart this time,” he sets the timer on his phone. “Ready, set...go!”

You dash out of his car faster than ever and speed through the forest. You've got this. Last time your stupid legs gave out due to being in a box for too long but now you've trained for this moment for a week and you feel confident enough that you'll have a blast. Sure, you know that the point of this game is for Chan to eventually catch you. And boy, do you look forward to that moment. But the more you run, the more your heart will jump out, the more thrilled you feel.

You begin to lose track of time as you go deeper and deeper into the forest. Have five minutes already passed? You don't hear Chan's footsteps so either he hasn't started chasing you yet or he's going in another direction. Whatever the explanation, you keep running even though you're beginning to lose your breath. How much longer? You still don't hear him and you are in desperate need of a break. You should have brought a bottle of water. But carrying something like that would only slow you down. You're thinking too much again. You just want him to catch you already and fuck you until you can no longer think. Truly the best feeling in the world.

Finally, you hear leaves rustling. You don't hear his voice but you know he's getting near. Shit, what if it's someone else? No, that can't be it. Chan made sure that people rarely walk this path and it would only be the two of you. Still, you're terrified at the thought of someone other than Chan catching you. The mere suggestion of that is enough to send speed to your muscles and make you faster.

But all good things must come to an end (or maybe the good things are just about to begin...) and you are engulfed by a pair of strong arms. Before you can react or try to fight your attacker off, he's pressing his hand against your mouth.

“Shhh, don't scream,” Chan's voice is both a comfort and a threat, sending mixed signals to your core.

“Mmpf,” you struggle to make some kind of noise but it comes out muffled against his rough hand.

“This will all be easier if you don’t fight it,” Chan says soothingly and you shake your head in disagreement.

He momentarily removes his hand from your lip.

“Please, somebody help me!” you scream loud enough to paint the scene more vividly but not loud enough to actually attract attention in case a stranger passes by some forest. Which honestly seems impossible at this point. Chan really picked a very secluded trail.

“No one’s gonna hear you, sweetheart. And even if they did, do you think they’d help you? Silly little bun, you brought this on yourself walking in the forest all alone, wearing this dress…”

Fuck, why is he so good at this? You try not to wonder if he’s had prior experience with such a scenario or he simply just has great imagination to come up with such lines.

“Please, don’t do this,” you pretend to be afraid as your best friend pushes you on your knees and situates himself behind you. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Why not? I’ll fuck you so good you’ll want to brag about it,” Chan chuckles coldly and sticks his thick fingers inside your pussy unexpectedly.

“Nnghh,” you cry out and are beginning to lose energy of all the running and no longer feel like faking it, letting out moans and whimpers of pleasure.

“See? You’re all wet for me, so obviously you’re enjoying it,” Chan gathers the evidence of your satisfaction with his fingers and pushes them into your mouth.

You don’t need an order to know what to do as you lick them clean of your arousal.

“Fuuuck, good girl,” Chan praises you and briefly breaks character, stroking your hair gently.

Oh, shit. You think you’re falling for your best friend. But such thoughts will only bring complications, especially in the current context, so you push them down as much as you can.

Chan makes sure you’re wet enough by mercilessly stroking your pussy and finally, fuck, sweet finally, enters you from behind with his cock.

“N-no, d-don’t do this,” you scream and try to escape his strong grasp but of course, it’s no use.

“Such a useless slut, only good for fucking and nothing more.”

The degrading words sting but you’re trying not to dwell on it too much.

“So fucking wet for a stranger. Disgusting,” he says.

Fuck, this hurts. Not the cock stretching you out to the fullest but what he’s saying. Is it really true?

You want to say the safeword. But you also don’t. By the time you make up your mind, Chan has already painted your walls white and you are also coming with a shudder, loudly and devastatingly.

You feel broken. Bad broken. You want to go home and cry and sleep and eat ice cream. What went wrong? You were having such a great time. So why are you suddenly having such dark thoughts? And not dark in the sexy way…

Chan picks you up gently and checks up on you.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m okay, I just want to go home,” you respond briefly.

He nods, quietly wondering if he did something wrong or if he’s just imagining the sad, empty look in your pretty eyes.

Chan helps you walk back to his car and makes sure you drink water and cleans you up to the best of his abilities with some tissues he prepared in advance.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again as he parks the car in front of you place. “You haven’t said a word during the whole ride. Usually you have funny stories to share and…”

“Gee, sorry for not always being the class clown, I guess,” you snap at him angrily with an eyeroll.

“Okay, don’t give me that attitude,” Chan scolds you gently but firmly. “If we want to do this healthily, you gotta communicate with me. If I did something wrong or if you felt uncomfortable at any point.”

You shake your head, still in denial.

“If you don’t wanna talk, I won’t force you. But you gotta remember that you mean the world to me, yeah? Even if these games end, I need to have my best friend in my life, am I clear?”

You blink and finally gather the courage to look at him.

“I’m sorry, Chris,” you admit and burst into tears.

He pulls you into a hug and pats your back.

“You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“Well, the truth is I wasn’t all that into it when you said that thing about me being useless, only good for fucking and disgusting,” you confess.

“Oh, babygirl, you know I don’t mean these things. I only said them ‘cause you mentioned you’re into degradation.”

“I was, I mean, I am, but for some reason, it really hurt me this time, sorry. I should have said. I just don’t want you to think poorly of me.”

“Alright, first of all, stop saying sorry, it’s completely normal to get caught up in it and feel insecure sometimes. As a dom, I should have been more careful and checked up on you more frequently. And second of all, please, remember that you are very smart, sweet, funny and not to mention incredibly beautiful so there is no way in hell I think lowly of you. Now, did you put that down in your pretty brain of yours?”

“Yes, sir,” you answer enthusiastically and your tears have dried up, instead a bright smile appears on your face. “Thanks for saying that. I guess I really needed to hear it.”

“You don’t have to thank me. Just next time if you happen feel like that, say the safeword and talk to me. About anything, I mean it.”

“You too, Chris. I know that’s particularly hard for you to open up but whatever you tell me, I would never judge you.”

“I know, babygirl,” Chan chuckles softly and does something that further confuses the already blurred lines of your friendship. He kisses you on the lips, deeply and sweetly. Not like how you kiss your best friend but how you kiss a lover.

“Do you want…to come inside?” you offer, not knowing what exactly, considering you just ended a very overwhelming scene.

Actually, you know what you want. You want him to hold you, to watch a dumb movie and eat popcorn together. You want…more than you can have.

“I gotta get some work done,” Chan says with a wince. “I’m really behind on stuff.”

“Is it…my fault?”

“No way. I just can’t stop thinking of…our games even when I’m supposed to be working,” he admits.

Phew. You’re glad he didn’t say he can’t stop thinking of you. If he had, you wouldn’t be able to let him go to work.

“Right. Same here,” you reply dumbly.

“If you need anything and I mean, anything, just give me a call or a text. I’ll keep my phone nearby.”

“You really shouldn’t, I’ll keep annoying you,” you mumble self-consciously.

Chan grips your hand and squeezes it comfortingly.

“You could never annoy me, okay?”

“Okay, daddy,” you say it playfully, eliciting a giggle out of his beautiful mouth.

“Do you have any particular wishes for…you know, next time?”

“I do, but it’s kinda mild compared to what we’ve done already,” you shrug. “Dunno if you’d be into it.”

“Name it and it’s yours,” Chan assures you.

“How do you feel about…fucking me while I’m asleep?”

To be continued…