This Was So Like I Cant Even Describe Into Words The Cookery

this was so like i cant even describe into words the cookery

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.

Tags

gojo satoru jujutsu kaisen jjk smut gojo smut

5 (+ 1)

or five times you attempted to pet tighnari's ears and the one time he let you

tighnari x gn! reader rated: t wc: 9k+

a/n: i swear i'm not a genshin writer. every now and again one just really hits me and won't leave me alone. i'm shaking at the prospect of meeting cyno.

|1|

when you had taken up the life of a very luxurious forest ranger, you hadn’t done so with any grand goal in mind. growing up you’d never been enticed by the prestige of the akademiya. the too tight robes warded off any appeal of unlimited knowledge.

you weren’t much of a haggler either, so market trading had never been much of an option. to be honest, in most cases you couldn't be bothered and would give away something for free if it meant getting the person out of your face.

maybe as a child you’d dreamed of theatre. promises of dancing in front of a crowd. or performing a sincere song of gratitude in honour of your generous archon. but there was a reason why only the children of sumeru dreamt. because it saved you the reality of embarrassment.

ultimately it made sense for you to be a forest ranger. you were blessed with a vision and had the aptitude for conflict when needed. you didn't mind being outside. sumeru was a beautiful land of bountiful vegetation and fauna. you were proud to be part of the force protecting it.

so naturally, you were destined to join their ranks. you would fit in splendidly as long as you followed the basic code of conduct.

the rules were simple:

execute every possible strategy to ensure the safety of the public

do not engage in any withering zone excavation without first reporting it

do not under any circumstances attempt to touch master tighnari’s ears.

you believed that honour should be given where it was due, and tighnari certainly earned a bulk of it in sumeru. he was as tenacious in his research as he was in his determination to cull the withering.

it was admirable. unquestionably gave his subordinates something to look up to. it helped that he made an easy guy to work for. tighnari was an abundance of knowledge, never failing to deliver relevant facts about any form of botany in sight.

during your initial interview he completely sidetracked himself from testing your competency in favour of dumping the equivalent of a knowledge capsule on the entire forest on you. and during the whole time all you could think was how cute.

those fluffy, distractingly soft ears he had that twitched with every emotion. you noticed that sometimes they swayed unprompted, as if they had a mind of their own. the man himself seemed oblivious to your obsession, or just so immune to the attention at this point that it hardly phased him.

it was a shame really.

because by the time he realised you were out of your seat, he had a split second to snatch your offending hand before your fingers to reach the fur. the utterly adorable culprits seemed to tease your failure, flickering invitingly just out of reach of your wiggling fingers.

at least you had enough integrity to smile in the face of defeat as your future boss leered at you unimpressed.

he spent the remainder of your now orientation laminating over the very extensive punishment policy to be expected of any broken infractions.

|2|

it was safe to say the threat of punishment didn’t weigh too heavily on your consciousness. what you did learn, was everything more the life of a ranger had to offer. it wasn’t as though you belittled it to a simple forest guide. you were well aware of how each and every one of your colleagues put their life on the line to protect the gifts from the first of the dendro goddess.

but you never expected your contribution to feel so satisfying.

every day your body got stronger, gaining the resilience and stamina to endure long treks through the forest. you became more in tune with your vision, able to protect not only yourself but others from harm. unexpectedly, tighnari’s long winded tangents began sounding more appealing as you absorbed the information rather than repel it.

with each passing day you grew into the role of a proper forest ranger.

though there was one thing you hadn’t grown out of.

“you two will be assigned with me. we’ll patrol the southeast canopy.”

tighnari was always so serious when delegating assignments. archon’s bless him. given it was a momentous occasion as it was imperative to understand everyone’s role so that their was a fair opportunity to return home safe and sound.

it was just he way his ears followed each command. the adorable quiver not at all equivalent to his resolute voice. even after over a year under his command, it was still so distracting. to be fair, you’d learned to control your urges. after the second attempt and a week of making sure the long row of lamps remained glowing, you had at least accepted the pressing issue of testing his patience.

your respect didn’t go unrewarded either. over time, you learned that under those cute ears was a very interesting man. you always knew he valued his time in the forest and that the publications were not just for show like some of the akademiya graduates. but to witness his unfiltered passion for the forest was … kind of refreshing.

it made for genuine conversations that allowed you to feed off one another. while you’d never quite match his never ending knowledge for botany, you accompanied it well with your growing love for fauna.

in short, tighnari had become an unexpected friend.

with very endearing ears that you still felt the urge to touch after many, many months of barely held restraint.

it was admirable.

worth the gained friendship.

and yet.

collei’s shoulder knocked comfortably into yours as she hopped with glee. her joy made her unaware to the sharp gazes watching her exuberant movements for any signs of fatigue. being around collei had eventually led you to believe that something was different about her.

as a fellow trainee for a time, the two of you had grown close enough for her to feel secure in delving into more of her past. her illness wasn’t necessarily rare but it wasn’t often you met many affected with as much optimism as she had.

there was no doubt she had bouts of pain. sometimes you would cover her patrols to give her extra days of rest. tighnari was the most observant, always knowing when she needed a break. still the girl was a refreshing take on life in these darkening days.

it helped that you both shared a fixation with a certain pair of furry ears.

whereas she was more timid in her appreciation, you had yet to shed your bold approach.

well, maybe you got a little smarter.

“but i already know about the sweetwater mushrooms,” collei whispered back, confusion staining her voice. there were times like this that her charmingness rivalled tighnari.

you resisted the urge to pat the crown of her head.

you all knew about the infamous fungi. upon its discover, tighnari had spent nearly a month after submitting his entry into the new rainforest guide speaking all about its elements; to anyone or anything regardless how responsive.

if it was a botanical topic the fox found it hard to resist engaging.

leaning closer, you kept a close eye on the leading man.” i know you do but tighnari always has something more to say. i just need you to ask him about it.” you refrained from using the word distract.

collei’s ability to lie wasn’t a favourable skill. more often than not she caved in on herself before being able to spin a convincing tail. you’d learned fairly quickly the first time you convinced her to test a new route. the two of you hadn’t found any trouble but the slight delay in return roused a few questions. and of course tighnari had been the investigator. she never had a winning chance.

“i still don’t get why i have to ask.”

“because i need an opening to try to touch his ears.”

the sharp gasp she left out was enough to shatter the gossip bubble as tighnari turned with a suspicious frown. his gaze fell heavily on you as the culprit.

“what are you two muttering about?”

laughing sheepishly, your hip checked subtly against the younger girl’s as you took the lead. “just about the dusk birds. their mating season is approaching.”

tighnari raised a brow, but didn’t question further. one of the ways you’d managed to bond with collei had been over the observation of the bird hatchlings. they were one of the safer offsprings you were allowed to track in your earlier days, making you very familiar with their nesting grounds. it was one of the few areas he allowed you both to wander together without supervision.

“uh huh, well unfortunately i doubt we’ll get many sightings this low. please try to stay vilgint for any threats.”

tighnari rolled his eyes at your comical salute but was unable to hide his small grin. it only fed into your wider one.

good. he was in an amicable mood today. you’d both need it.

collei managed to remain cool headed despite your hanging plan as the three of you ventured through the more worn paths. travellers and students alike tended to frequent these parts, fending off most wildlife who didn’t want to be bothered. it was mostly flora that flourished, taking up any available space.

the perfect conversation starter.

the green haired trainee squeaked when you cleared your throat and nudged her softly. the noise caused a flicker to tighnari’s ear but he otherwise left the two of you to your devices as he examined the population of fungi.

your gaze darted to the seemingly preoccupied man and back, to which collei gulped but carefully approached. “um, master tighnari. do you mind going over the procedure for warning travellers about fungi again? sometimes i stumble with the more insistent ones.”

you could hear a bit of truth bleed into the ploy. it was certainly convincing enough as tighnari gestured for her to come to closer as he plucked a few samples. “certainly! it’s always good to familiarise yourself. sometimes they can get a little tricky. like this one, the bell-shaped and conical caps can often confuse people. you have to really pay attention to the arch…”

archons bless him, it didn’t really take much.

tighnari’s eyes darted briefly to you as you settled near them. his body turned to welcome you into the discussion, but he otherwise continued his deep analysis of proper measurements of cap width. the fleeting eye contact was enough for you to witness the undeniable brightness as he conversed.

as much as you liked to tease him, the jest hardly had any weight when the man was as serious about his research. he often responded with a chide about the importance of understanding and how it promoted coexistence. and then he would give you editions of his publications for you to study.

the first few times, after you’d baulked at the depth of the information, you’d actually managed to discover a few interesting elements. despite his ability to drone on, the passion he felt was undeniable when reading through this material. even if you didn’t retain much of the actual reading, the smile you developed lingered. only to widen when you’d witnessed the excited flicker of his tail when you’d returned the books with a few inquiries of your own.

tighnari took your interest in the fauna populating the forest seriously, cultivating the bud of fascination and furthering it. you hadn’t developed enough academic discretion to attempt a article- not that it would have been credible without the proper education- but tighnari baubles your insights all the same, often using your tracking skills to help develop new routes during various mating and hibernation periods.

it … really helped you feel at home. valued amongst the other forest rangers.

so what if you occasionally found your cheeks warming whenever he complimented your new discoveries.

“when people ask, it's important to point out as many examples as you can to help them identify. in most cases you only have their attention for a few minutes so you need to capitalise.”

you had to give it to collei, she was either fully immersed or integrating very well into the diversion. though when tighnari got like this, it was nearly one in the same.

rolling onto your knees, you paused as those endearing astute ears twitched in your direction. tighnari hadn’t skipped a beat, however instinct was so inherent. it made for an unfair advantage, however you had desensitisation on your side. the next disturbance you made as you leaned closer hardly got a reaction as his second nature focused on the world outside your bubble.

it was a flattering downfall that you’d happily exploit as your hand neared your objective.

“- actually that’s a common mistake. some of the gills look similar but if you notice here..:”

oh no.

in one fluid motion, tighnari managed to capture your hovering hand, dragging it forward under his arm to come in contact with his other. the motion dragged you flush against his back as he manipulated your fingertips against the underside of the mushroom.

“-… there’s a coarser distinction. of course, you have to be careful when encouraging other to touch freely as some can still be poisonous.”

naturally you doubted tighnari would use you so freely as an impromptu demonstration, punishment be damned. though the way he kept your appendage hostage implied that you weren’t free from reprimand.

poor collei chuckled nervously as tighnari held out the fungi for her to try, eyes wondering anxiously between the two of you. from your imprisonment, you were unable to see what expression tighnari was giving off, but if the tight grip was any indicator it was safe to hypothesise that it wasn’t in your favour.

“i um- see. thank you, master.”

tighnari didn’t appear to have any ill will towards the girl which was a small grace. his tone, however, was noticeably pinched as he directed the conversation over his shoulder.

“do you have any questions, ranger?”

yep.

there’s the wrath.

accepting defeat, your head careened forward into the hollow of his shoulder as you mumbled your negative with the shake of a head. Immediately you felt his posture stiffen in responses to your relaxed submission. the proximity awarded you a personal showcase of the heat crawling up the back of his neck.

interesting.

“well then!” tighnari forced a cheerful bravado as he brought you both to an abrupt stand, releasing you in favour of stepping forward to lead. “collei, listen closely as they recite every classification as we finish our patrol. we can make note of their mistakes so that they don’t make them again when they extensively copy them onto the new pamphlets for next release.”

it didn’t evade you how the fox refused to face you as he pressed forward. you dared to guess that the rosy hue of his neck might match the roundness of his cheeks.

perhaps some discoveries were worth the failures.

|3|

“I really want to feature the spinokrok in my next story but I’ve never really seen one up close. dad says it’s too dangerous though.”

“he’s right. they’re at the very bottom of the ravine.”

“oh…”

“but sometimes i pass through on patrols. if you’d like, i can snap a reference photo for you!”

“really? that would be awesome, thanks so much!”

children’s happiness was truly a unique fruit of motivation, both gratuitous and frankly slightly treacherous to consume. tighnari might liken it to one of the colourful sprouts that populate the banks near the cliffside; beautifully cunning but sure to leave you with a nasty surprise.

—okay, maybe that was a little dramatic.

but you were certainly going to be in for quite the scolding if tighnari found out that you derailed your patrols for the sake of taking a leisure photo of wildlife. in the defence of safety, the fox wasn’t as easily swayed by a childish promise.

fortunately, you were adept enough with just about any patrol path through the rainforest by now. your experience often persuaded tighnari to give allowance for you to tend to the paths along the outskirts of the village solo.

which you were totally doing.

just from a view a couple hundred metres below.

the path towards the wetland ravine was a muddy line in the undergrowth, a quieter trail that rarely gathered much traffic: traveller or wildlife. to be honest, you hardly ever saw anything other than the spinokrok’s down here. though given their diet, it wasn’t much of a surprise.

you carefully neared the bankside, watching the position of the sun in between the treetops. you’d already bartered away a lot of your time venturing this low. while you were known for a bit of wandering, if you took too long to check-in someone would end up alerting tighnari before long. the sky was already beginning to bleed into a light orange, the beginning shades of the setting sun melting into the blue above.

not your first nighttime return, but the light scolding would be easy enough to shake off.

the sudden splash drew your attention to the winding river as a crane took flight. the skittish fowl wouldn’t have been alerted to your presence this early which meant that your targets weren’t far off.

tugging the kamera from your knapsack, you followed the line of the water through the lens.

“there you are…”

razi would be pleased with the prints of the small brood of three. highlights from above complimented the red scales nicely. curious, you swung the lens further upstream in an attempt to capture a few more. known for their meat, if undisturbed it would be easy enough to find at least another two or three.

however as the slithering vines stretched norther further, twisting through branches on its congest to conquer vegetation, you found the rapidly darkening view to be concerning. sure enough, the once plentiful flora was beginning to shrink on itself and take on a dull shade. the distinctive red flow of the withering zone was seated right in the apex of the blistering landscape.

“here too?”

the area was small, but this route was part of the weekly assignments rather than the more frequent. had you not come here in search of fauna, it likely wouldn’t have been discovered for a few more days. unfortunately, locating it yourself was tantamount to giving away your private detour.

for a brief moment you debated taking the chance to report, weighing the pros and cons. ultimately, the loss of independency once tighnari tracked your impromptu route was too great of a squander. besides, it was a small devastation. you were qualified to handle it.

—except for the corrupted machina lingering just out of sight.

the narrow lens of the kamera hadn't been able to capture the additional dangers before you neared. had you been aware, you would have attempted to at least down one before you got too close. it was a tight battle, suffering under the thick miasma while trying to cut off the source.

you’d managed to down the bulkier of the two, but the swindling snake-like projection had been doing an annoying job of evading your strongest attacks. with your hp at threatening level, coupled with low energy regeneration, you were starting to regret your choices just a little bit.

you briefly wondered if tighnari would scold you through the eulogy.

the darkness blanketing the forest worked against you, as the remaining threads of daylight faded. the red glow of the withering was the least comforting form of light to rely on as you made a hasty dodge away from the blasting beam.

“oh, crap.”

a miscalculation saw your foot caught on a fraying vine, careening your forward as you landed heavily onto the ground. the threatening wind of the machina generating energy had you sucking in a harsh breath as you attempted to stand, resulting in a sharp jolt of pain as your ankle protested. a cold chill numbed your body in the worst way as the unsettling realisation of your actions weighed in. scrambling feebly for your weapon, you attempted to shield the next blow though you knew it wouldn't be enough.

“enshroud!”

your body jerked in alarm as a cloud of green circled the earth around you. the lack of visibility should have been worrying, had you not been very familiar with it’s caster; and the inevitable reckoning that would come.

the first half came in the form of a series tanglevine shafts trained to track and devastate. the secondary wave wiped out the last of the threats before your savour was able to focus on the bleeding blooms. you’d never been more grateful to witness a successful clearance, as the suffocating effects of the withering abed away. it gave you just enough clear air to breath a grateful sigh of relief before it all soured.

the second half of your retribution, was a quieter approach of wraith then you were use to. tighnari refused to look you in the eye as he kneeled before your injured limb. not that that you were trying to see the reflection of your guilt staring back at you. it gave you the opportunity to observe that he’d come alone, making you wonder if he’d been informed or had simply stumbled upon you.

neither option was beneficial.

the fox was obviously simmering, that much was clear even in his silence. he’d produced a small aid kit from his belt and was examining your ankle. the first sounds of annoyance permeating the air when you squeaked at the firm pressure against the joint.

it was obvious that you wouldn’t be walking out of here.

as if you weren’t in enough trouble.

tighnari’s reticence preserved as he tied a stiff bow at the end of your wrapping before turning to offer his back. sighing, you accepted your fate and looped your arms around his neck. tighnari waited until your knees settled at his sides before he rose to his feet, added a second security under the weight of your thighs.

at first you hoped to construct a plausible excuse in his silence, but after you’d practised the same redemption for the twelfth time you were starting to become more concerned about his resilience. you dont think you've ever witness tighnari hold back a scolding this long.

unable to hold out any longer, you poked the hornet’s nest.

“so razi has this new story idea.”

yeah you were throwing the kid under the bus, sue you.

the first flicker of his ears was a subtle warning, but you pressed through.

“he wanted to use the spinokroks as his next character but he’d never really been able to see one up close. and naturally it wouldn’t be safe for a child to traverse the forests. even with his father.”

there goes the second ear.

“so being the helpful forest ranger i am under your tutelage, i offered to secure a reference photo for him. which of course—”

tighnari’s voice came quiet and strained. “please stop talking.”

you waited for him to say more, sure that he’d have more to tack on, but no other words left his lips. it was disconcerting in a way you hadn’t experienced before. you'd suffered through annoyance, frustration and some rage.

but rarely disappointment.

it was bitter tasting.

it was rather telling when even the wildlife seemed to avoid the pair as you ascended out of the ravine. tighnari managed to not only reach the outskirts of the village, but did so without cracking under the pressure of your culpability.

unfortunately you weren’t as robust.

“tigh—”

“for every word, i’m adding a week of lamp maintenance duty.”

you squeezed your arms and legs around him in a hug, seeking out a thread of comfort through the throbbing pain of your ankle.

“i’m sorry.”

tighnari sucked in a sharp breath as his steps halted. you could see the first glow of the lamps in the distance, no doubt a night crew lingering near to welcome the late returners.

“you’re an idiot.”

a tight fist squeezed your heart as you shuddered against his back.

“i know.”

“another week! i cannot believe your absolute disregard for your welfare. not only in straying from your patrols but to attempt to clear a withering zone without reporting it first. what were you thinking?”

your lips parted, voice small,” well i thought given how far off it was that no one would come across it before it spread.”

the fox was quietly shaking under you,” i’m tempted to bench you for a year for this alone. you could have been killed.”

“but i wasn’t.”

tighnari didn’t acknowledge the crackled excuse as he resumed the ascent towards the heart of the village. the conversation was over, at least for tonight. you almost felt bad for those hapless to witness the quiet fury as the leader trudged through the canopy. though the arrangement surely painted a telling story no one dared to stop or question.

upon entering your bungalow, tighnari silently backed into your bed until you took the hint.

as your arms slipped from around him, your fingertips brushed against the furry cartilage. though the action went ignored by both parties.

“rest, we’ll discuss this in the morning.”

|4|

the discussion did not come the following morning, or the rolling day as the sun rose and set. given your ailment you weren't exactly able to seek out your punishment, though the waiting game felt like the precursor.

for the first three days, your only visitors were collie and one of the local healers. tighnari likely hadn’t banned the nervous girl, allowing her to stumble in at first light to assess your injuries. it seemed as though he also didn’t inform her of much as she tired to glean what she could.

unfortunately, your mood hadn’t really improved from the night before, nor had your pain levels. you managed a tight smile at best, gritting through a scarce overview. the overhanging rumours were that you finally pushed tighnari to his limits. which was not too far from the truth.

your medicine came in three intervals, and each visit was just that. umm only offer a genial knowing close-lipped smile as she applied the numbing cream and rewrapped your joints. the only news came from collei with each meal. it was never what you wanted to hear, but the sound of a voice other than your thoughts was welcome.

you were able to keep up with light chat, the both of you doing an amicable job at avoiding the shaggy sumpter beast in the room. if the flightiness she gave off was anything to go by, then tighnari hadn’t completely cooled off. initially, you’d only probed subtly. asking about her patrols to see who accompanied her. questioning new withering zone reports to gauge who might be assigned. either tighnari had instructed her to be tightlipped or she was on as much of a lockdown as you were because the information gleaned was inconsequential.

it wasn’t until the fifth day, when you were able to balance on your injured ankle for longer than a minute that you dared to try for more.

umm had just finished, stepping clear of the doorway to allow collei to maneuver freely with the two bowls of lunch. the younger girl was in a lighter mood, giving you the extra confidence to push.

you took a bite of the leftover stew first, before testing the waters. “has tighnari taken you on any deeper patrols lately?”

the girl stiffened but otherwise did not show any signs of distress.

“not really, he’s been kind of strict with patrols lately. only seniors have been assigned to the forest floor. i patrolled the understory with nasrin yesterday though! the dusk birds are starting to nest.”

you could resist a soft smile as the girl lead comfortable into a short tangent about the different locations she’d tracked in her notebook. she loved to watch the hatching process from the birth to first flight. tighnari was often more lenient with her during this season. you were pleased to know your mess up hadn’t resulted in that being taken away.

“hopefully i’ll be healed enough to catch one of the hatchings.”

collei’s gaze flickered to your freshly wrapped ankle, “master tighnari wouldn’t say but he’s been pretty testy about ranger etiquette lately. well more than useful.”

“yeah, i was pretty stupid,” you muttered, quoting the fox’s words from that night.

collei sat upright on the chair by your desk, responding to your despondent mood. “he’s not nearly as bad as before though. i mean that morning after he was really mad. not like loud angry, but everyone knew not to test him. but he’s calmer now”, she assured.

you assumed as much. avoiding you was likely the best way to keep his temper in check.

you watched as the green haired trainee squirmed in her seat, no doubt uncomfortable at the idea of being between the brewing conflict. tighnari no doubt tried to ease that predicament by withholding information. the least you could do was honour your half to keep from setting her off.

“umm said i should try walking around more. i got permission to pace the platform if you want to join.”

the girl jumped at the chance, nearly losing her bowl in the process. laughing, you quickly took hers and set it on the desk with yours before standing to your feet. collei was at your side, urging your arm over her shoulder. it wasn’t really necessary but you’d never turn down the girl’s assistance.

carefully the two of you ambled through the leaves shrouding your entrance. it wasn’t the first time this week that the sun warmed your skin. umm had urged you to test the distance from your bed to your porch on the second day with each visit there after. it helped tp press your limitations while keeping the joint from getting too stiff. but this was the first time you’d been able to venture far enough out to interact with more than the same two people for the last few days.

collei remained diligent as she led you down the straight path, attention not straying from your gait as you greeted faces you haven't seen in awhile. the reception was overall positive, your health and wellbeing superseding the wraith that had hung over the encampment for the past week. it narrowed down the list of those you’d need to apologise to at least.

“oh it’s master tighnari!”

your gaze snapped to her extended finger, noting the tall tuff of ears before anything else. his back was turned to you, a fortunate thing as you still weren’t sure how to face him just yet. he appeared to be conversing with a group, though it wasn’t the usual collection of rangers waiting for assignments.

you recognized the garments however.

collei groaned as she sagged under your arm. “its the akademiya again. when will they ever learn?”

likely no time soon, as the pressure from both the forest and threat of the ‘scarlet king’ followers continued to rise. the first time you witnessed the prestigious envoy attempting to recruit the fox, you’d been in awe. it was somewhat of an honour to be approached by anyone doning the gowns. next to the archon herself, they were the reigning power. however the prestige lost a light grace, when tighnari scoffed at the invitation.

it was one of the occasions that you’d really come to appreciate more than just his vast knowledge. of course, you respected him as a leader but it was different to consider his understanding of plant life on a scholarly level. his tangents that he loved to rattle your ear with were published and very popular articles.

he was something of a celebrity. a fact that you loved to tease just to see the tops of his cheeks grow warm at the admission.

now, even at this distance, you could see a similar red dusting his fair skin. but not in the pleasant way that warmed your chest.

no it seemed that an inkingly of your excursion still peaked his heart rate. and this wasn't making it any better.

that wasn’t good.

“collei, please help me.”

“huh? oh, wait! not too fast.”

tighnari grit through a tight smile, barely hanging onto his fangs to keep them from showing. at a young age his mother taught him that human could find it threatening. frankly, right now he wished to find out how much of a truth that was if it got these nuisances out of his hair.

this was the last thing that he wished to deal with right now. the institution had taken a different route it seemed, sending students under the premise of studying under his tutelage. something he would maybe consider any other time than now.

his foot tapped irritably as one of the bolder ones spoke his piece, spouting words of prose that meant nothing to him. they were all weak and obvlivious children wandering aimlessly. he had enough of those under his own watch.

“master tighnari, i've read all your publications intensively and feel that i would be a valuable asset in your further research of the withering zones. i believe that together we can find a cure.”

tighnari barely resisted rolling his eyes. it was almost laughable. the withering had plagued them for centuries and they were still no closer to curbing it. no amount of research at this point was going to factor in. all they could do was contain, and that was a skill the akademiya didn’t teach.

breathing audibly through his nose, the fox attempted to remain cordial. “i appreciate your determination, however, i'm not in a position right now to allocate more rangers to facilitate your safety. the forest—”

“—i’ve also read intently on the local fauna and proper was to track warning signs of predators…”

tighnari really hated when he was interrupted.

“i’m confident in my ability to spot danger before it becomes a problem.”

especially by know-it-alls who were overstepping in his domain.

the student continued on unware of the growing dangers, “i’ve brought a few of my manuscripts with me if you’d like to browse some of my speculations and hypotheses…”

tighnari's brow twitched as the student droned on. for someone who boasted about extensive research on understanding predators he was rather obvious to the one standing before him. the same couldn't be said about his colleagues who were carefully edging back.

“if i could just get a few samples—”

the student had sense enough to notice as the plant scholar suddenly flinched, hand coming up to grasp the wrist of the hand threatening to touch the tip of his ear. it was the first time since opening his mouth that he’d taken into account the strained curl to the lips of the botany researcher.

his gaze then flickered to the more relaxed, if not slightly sheepish smile of the forest ranger behind. they seemed otherwise unconcerned despite the death grip they'd been trapped in for … attempting to touch master tighnari’s ears?

the student felt a shudder wrack his body as the fox’s grimace smoothed into … something that he would one day recognize as a reckoning he’d be fortunate to survive in years to come.

“apologies, you’ll have to excuse me. it appears one of my rangers feels well enough to venture off their bed rest and is due for some new assignments.” with that, the lead ranger looped the still trapped limb over his shoulder before assisting the injured ranger back up the canopy.

“you can give your manuscripts to my trainee, collei.”

the green hair trainee in question waved timidly, unsure of how she got in this position but willing to help.” hello, im forest ranger trainee collei. please let me assist you safely out of the forest.”

|5|

“it’s master tighnari!”

believe it or not, forest rangers did get off days. while it was still heavily frowned on to use that time to exploit certain privileges to free roam the forest, there were other activities that some could get up to.

some would use the opportunity to travel to the city or port for the market or to visit family.

others utilised their freedom to work on personal research.

then there was tighnari who used the opportunity to research the local flora … via oral experimentation.

your small project had been tossed aside in favor of darting out of your bungalow at the cry of fright from the green haired girl. it wasn’t the first time you’d witnessed tighnari taking his passion … to the next level. that time, curiosity had thrown him into a rather long slumber that he’d conveniently woken up from after a gratuitous amount of panicking on collie’s part and just in time for you to return with the rescue aid party.

it was safe to say that was not the last occassion, and tighari had treated you both to several lunches to make up for the scares.

but it wasn’t often that he was brought back to the village in a state. more often than not the ailments resolved in the time it took someone to find him or simply shaken off with no concern.

it was enough to have you barreling unannounced through the head ranger’s door with apprehension. firm but fraying hands caught you as you stumbled through, righting your body before you could embarrass yourself.

“don’t worry, tighnari is fine. it’s a harmless reaction to one of the fungi he consumed.”

umm brought her hands to a comfortable leisure behind her back as you peered over her shoulder.

tighnari was lain out across his bed. it looked as though he had been tucked away intentionally, but the man had fought away the sheets in a fit. there was a light coat of perspiration doting his forehead and his skin had taken on a rosy flush. it hardly looked harmless. you’d never seen the lead forest watcher look so … unravelled.

when was he going to learn to stop experimenting so freely?

umm gave a passing pat to your shoulder,“with a bit of rest he’ll be just fine.”

you had hoped as much but it eased some of your worries to see him at least home safe. though his predicament still tested your resolve. you would distract yourself for the time being concocting your own chiding speech. seriously, someone needed to hold him accountable. as it seemed, you were the only one daring enough to challenge the fox.

heavily a relieved sigh, you turned to leave. collie would likely need a second dose of comfort now that you’d taken your own inventory of the indisposed ranger. umm, bless her soul, wasn’t a very convincing source of comfort. having collie help prepare your speech would do some good for her as well.

“wait, don’t go yet.”

you stiffed at the unexpected plea. the voice behind you sounded a bit stronger than it should be in this predicament, more like the fox you recognized. umm hadn’t left you with any instructions, but it was safe to assume he was meant to rest as not to rile up his heart rate anymore. something you were very good at doing.

you liked to think that the two of you were on agreeable terms thus far. you’d been a textbook ranger over the last few weeks. not testing the limits of your privileges or boundaries. it allowed for the two of you to have some nice conversations. though you doubted anything very articulate would come from his mouth right now.

it was unfair, how adorable he looked with mussed hair, heavy eyes and creased clothes. umm had taken responsibility to rid him of the more decorative parts of his uniform, leaving him in a simple shirt and pants. the said shirt appeared to have been tugged open, revealing the lean muscles of his chest and abdomen.

that was decidedly leaning away from cute, as you tore your gaze away and scolded yourself.

“you should really lay back down, tighnari, i need you to be yourself when i deliver your scolding later.”

“tigh.”

“huh?”

you were shaken out of your stupor when he stood, concern triggering your fight reaction as you quickly huddled him back onto the bed before he fell. he allowed you to do so, however when he glanced up at you his olive eyes showed annoyance.

“i prefer when you refer to me as tigh.”

your mouth open and closed silently at the admission. you could never recall tighnari outright scolding you for the curtail of his name. you used it so sparingly, and only ever in the comfort of just yourselves or collei.

he never really showed any emotion other than surprise the first time he’d realised what you said. you never assumed he’d catalogued the occurrences to feel any ownership over the name.

you fidgeted under the scrutinised of the fox, unsure of how to proceed from there. it was obvious that he was still mildly effective if the rose of his skin was anything to go by. but there was undeniable clarity cutting through the fog in his eyes. it was enough of a relief to have your shoulders sagging slightly.

if it got him to comply and rest through the remainder of the effects, you could concede.

“okay, … tigh. please stop eating flora so carelessly.”

it wasn’t your intention to start the chastising prematurely, but if he wanted you to talk, you’d do so. you weren’t sure what all of this he would recall, but you hoped the echoing nag of your voice would hover like a hangover next time he considered experimenting alone. you knew he only tested things with vague assumptions, just enough to ensure that he wouldn’t perish on sight. but it was still close enough calls for you to worry.

you thought nothing of the way he snared your hands, too used to having them detained in pursuit of your goal. maybe another time you would be the one to catalogue just how frequently the two of you help hands. certainly enough to suffer from desensita-

your speech cut off with a choke as the fox brought one of your hands to the crown of his head. it was the closest you’d ever gotten to your prize, just a simple flex of your fingers and it would be yours.

and he was just allowing it.

“um, tigh…?”

you swallowed as his hold slid to your wrist, thumb caressing the inside.

“it’s what you want, right?” unintentionally your finger flexed under the strain of resisting, just the casual brush against the ear causing the body to shudder. tighnari managed an even breath through his nose, but you suspected his heart was creating as much of a racket as yours was. “ i want you to. i don’t mind if it’s you.”

you sucked in a sharp breath at the omission.

it took strength that you didn't think you had, and stupidity you’d likely reflect on later that night as you regrettably pulled your hand away. firmly not thinking at all about the soft whine that left the fox’s lips at the action.

your smile was wobbly, frail under the weight of emotions teetering at the edge. you gave his bicep a comforting squeeze before you urged him to lay back in bed. thankfully he didn’t put up much of a fight as you tucked him in.

his lashes fluttered closed against the cool caress of his cheek.

“next time, promise.”

between one breath and the next, he fell asleep.

|+1|

tighnari woke to a low hanging sun and a heavy head. despite the warnings he opened his eyes, then immediately shut them. though blurry and out of sequence, the master ranger was able to piece together the majority of his last coherency.

he’d been experimenting with the effects of the moonshade mushrooms. there had been reports of unaware travellers losing consciousness in the middle of the forest and waking in a fevered state. naturally, he’d taken it upon himself to test the outcome in order to properly assign warning labels in his next publication.

the initial bout of slumber had been brief, broken by a wave of nausea and the sensation of his body overheating itself. he then recalled umm stripping away his uniform in order to help him cool down.

and then there was you.

he remembered the sound of your concern and the inkling of berating though he couldn't exactly call back the wording. he was sure to get an encore either way; well deserved.

there was a gaping absence in his recollection, but the sensation of your hand settled between the space of his ears hadn’t escaped him. when had he gotten bold enough to daringly reach out like that? sure you’d done the same on multiple occasions but it had been in pursuit of a singular goal while he—

tighnari stared at the leaf drawn entrance of his chamber, face burning.

but surely that could not have all occurred before noon.

“oh good you’re awake. that mushroom managed to down even you for a full day. it's certainly something to be aware of.”

the elderly woman peered briefly through the cut of the door before granting herself entrance. tighnari sat obediently still as she flittered over his vital signs, ensuring his temperature and heart rate were within agreeable boundaries.

she scribbled the notes like clockwork into the parchment on his desk. while his methods weren’t often agreed upon, umm saw the value in the repercussions. her diligence had help assist in multiple breakthroughs. tighnari would be sure to deliver a nice basket of her favourite tree sap candies once he was back in working order.

amir would have certainly taken initiative to oversee assignments for the day. he would certainly owe collei a visit as well to assure her fears. he vaguely remembered her putting up a fuss when he’d been carried in, shortly before she’d been directed out leading to her alerting you.

tighnari’s cheeks grew hot again. he refused to acknowledge the rising blush even as umm chuckled quietly while gathering up her kit. instead, he kept his eyes on the entrance as he pinned his sashes in place and equipped his vision.

it wasn’t as if the two of you weren’t already rather close. it was safe to say he gave you more allowances than most. sure, your futile attempts to touch his ears could be frustrating at times, but more so because of the opportunities you took than the actual actions.

despite popular belief, tighnari didn’t truly hold his ears in that high regard. it was more out of proprietary that he shied away from strangers acting out of curiosity. to be honest, he really wouldn’t mind too much if a ranger asked to pet them. but it seems as if their own misconceptions had fed into the unspoken rule that his fox-like features were out of the question.

except for you.

over time, the two of you managed to lapse into a comfortable game of cat and mouse. tighnari knew if he’d shown any true signs of anger you would have backed away from the start. but his tolerance had permitted you to try again and again.

so what if the occasional punishments he placed on you deterred the others, it never snuffed your fire and that was all that mattered to him.

it was only natural that over time constant exposure would ignite his own interest. he could recall with vivid memory the way it felt to have you pressed against his back that time in the forest when you attempted to claim your prize in the middle of his lecture. he’d made you wait there while he finished the lesson, all the while relishing in the heat permitted his back.

had it been just the two of you, he would have let you.

yet when he finally caved and gave you the permission you'd been seeking all this time, you’d backed out.

‘next time’ you’d promised.

“if you’re done laminating, once you've finished eating you can go find them. i believe i saw them returning not long before i came here.”

umm didn’t wait for a response as she saw herself out, her amusement audible even as she descended the ramp to her own domain.

tighnari didn’t rush the act as he finished his meal and the provided water. once he finished, his lips turned at the dimming sunlight. his schedule was all but thrown out the window for the day, though he doubted anyone expected him to contribute much. still it stung his consciousness as a leader to leave his subordinates hanging , even if they were all self-sufficient adults. at least the headache had disappeared with proper nourishment. there would be time to salvage his routine later.

the sun was positioned late in the afternoon, but the dim light still irritated his eyes. he blinked through the sting as he welcomed the sight of the quaint village operating adequately in his absence.

he returned any passing waves and gave brief responses to their questions. for the most part everyone seemed confident that he’d make a full recovery, though he still harboured the guilt of worrying them.

brow pinched, he waved nasrin closer. “have you seen collei?”

the purse of her mouth didn’t spell anything good. tighnari hoped her illness had not acted up in his absence. “she had trouble sleeping last night so someone swapped patrols with her. she just set off not too long ago.”

the girl sometimes had trouble sleeping when plagued with anxiousness. tighnari settled that he would confront her upon her return, for now he had one more stop. he had a feeling he knew who offered to adjust their schedule to accommodate the girl.

he found your bungalow with practised ease, delivering a single knock before you offered entrance. he found you seated at your desk, no doubt detailing the report of your finding before submission. it was a relief to see that you took a break from your typical mischievousness to conduct a seemingly uniform patrol while he was indisposed.

“i don't suppose you came across any new interesting flora on your patrols?”

tighnari watched as your shoulders stiffened at the unexpected sound of his voice. your head whipped around, eyes assessing him carefully before you gave a timid, relieved smile.

“i think we can all agree that you’ve had enough adventures for one week,” you noted with light scolding.

grinning, tighnari cared little if his fangs showed, knowing you wouldn't find them threatening. your gaze followed him as he secured the leaves behind him before approaching your desk. he leaned comfortably against the wooden structure as he browsed the report. it had been routine indeed, not a single withering sighting.

“are you sure you’re alright? you had me worried for a bit.”

tighnari’s brow rose,” only a bit?”

scoffing, you rolled your eyes,” it’s not the worst thing you’ve eaten but seeing you down for so long was concerning. collei will be relieved to see you back on your feet.”

tighnari braceed his palm against the dest and leaned into the posture,“and you?”

“i owe you a scolding. you always get onto me about being aware and careful of my surroundings. yet here you go testing unknown fungi alone in the forest. at least bring it back before you test it out so we can be there if you need us.”

tighnari waited for you to finish, eyes shining with thinly veiled amusement. you seemed to recognize it as well, huffing as you realised your scolding didn't have as much weight as the seasoned scholar.

unable to resist, the fox reached out to run is fingers along the side of your face before letting them rest against your shoulder. he watched as your chest expanded to take in the small gasp of surprise. it was a rare moment for him to initiate contact like this, especially given the recent occurrence only yesterday. while his recollection was misty, yours was clear as day.

“i think you owe me something else too.”

tighnari watched your reactions carefully, from the flutter of your lashes to the rapid thrum of your heart beat against the pulse under your jaw. he never shied away from a discovery the promise of a satisfying understanding driving him from one revelation to the next.

admittedly, you’d been a gradual observation. the question at the tip of the scale all this time while he’d unknowingly researched you thoroughly with each new interaction. day and day again, you prompted him with new variables both under his control and not. it was only today that he managed to form a working hypothesis. a hesitant theory that he knew would shift everything.

tighnari watched with growing fascination as the initial shock meddling into purposefulness as your hand came into view. impatient, he couldn't resist ducking his hand to meet you halfway. the first careful touch was equally inquisitive and hesitant. each time in the past, your hand had darted out with such certainty. yet now with it all willing at your fingertips, you allowed yourself the time to explore.

he hadn’t realised his head had come to rest against your collar bone until he felt the rumbled of your laughter. you didn’t simply just touch his ears, you caressed the length form the widest part to the tip. your fingertips tickled the tufts of fluff at the base. and the light scratched you delivered against the firm cartilage had him all but melting into your hold. the burst of new stimuli tickled his nerves and left pleasant sensations.

later he would analyse the data but he was already certain about his conclusion.

your words mussed the top of his head as you spoke, humour bleeding into your intrigue. “can’t believe it took you a year to crack, tigh.”

tighnari sagged further at the uttering of the name. you flinched, not expecting the words of response to be mumbled into your skin. gratefully, it didn't cause you to pause.

“what was that?”

your touch slid from his ears to the curve of his jaw as his head rose to meet your gaze.

“i actually had two hypotheses I wanted to test.”

though he didn't speak more than that, he could tell you were well aware of the implications. your lips parted to respond, but no words could pass the lump in your throat. tighnari tested the waters, leaning closer enough to brush the tup of his nose against yours. when you didn't pull away, he leaned down and pressed your lips together, firmly but briefly. as he breathed in deeply, the smell of lush forestry, sweet flora and you invaded his scenes. the scent of familiarity minding with the aroma of what he called home was intoxicating.

your eyes shone bright with mischief as tighnari pulled away, no doubt observing the rosy hue spreading across his face.

“i think we need to experiment a little more before we can come to a confident conclusion.”

tighnari leaned back in and nuzzled you affectionately.

“i agree.’’

tagging upon request: @lott-the-otter @uhohitsemmy

Tags

genshin fluff tighnari x reader tighnari genshin

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ara-ara-bitch

2 years ago

THANK U FOR THIS MATEPIECE 🐜🦟🦟🕺✨🕺🫶💪🫶

Like a Moth to the Flame

Series: Avatar: The Last Airbender Pairing: Zuko x Reader Genre/Content: Not Safe For Worms - Stress relief sex, fuckbuddies, temperature play/inappropriate use of firebending, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, no pronouns really but Reader-chan has AFAB equipment Word count: 4610

Summary: You are with the Gaang at Zuko’s family’s abandoned vacation home on Ember Island. Sozin’s Comet is due to return in three days’ time. The entire squad is stressed, especially Zuko. You approach him that evening in an attempt to help him alleviate some of his tension.

A/N: So uh, I’ve been in kind of a slump as of late, and the pandemic shit didn’t help, even though it granted me all this free time. Thank you ATLA for rekindling my old flame for Zuzu though uwu it’s a 15 year long crush, and hooo boy I’m glad I did this. I’ll be interested to see what y’all think ;;; I hope you enjoy. Read on my AO3, or continue reading below.

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ara-ara-bitch

1 year ago

・゜゜・． tell me about love (show me how) | gojo satoru

◌ wc: 7.3k ◌ summary: you teach gojo how to love. ◌ warnings: wrote this with f!reader in mind but idt i mentioned anything specific so it should be gn as well!, descriptions of blood (typical jjk canon type stuff), shibuya onwards manga spoilers, implied minor character death, there are swears, suggestive bit at the end (but it’s funny!), lots of internal thoughts/dialogues ◌ a/n: this piece relates to my short blurb, do you believe in love? but isn’t necessarily a sequel to it! explores a lot on gojo internal struggles and beliefs (or at least the version of gojo i envision for this universe)! timeline is a bit ambiguous because it hops through a lot of in-betweens but it’s linear for the most part! also placed my own (optimistic and probably unrealistic) predictions of how things will pan out but i don’t go too much into it! i would also like to shoutout @stellamancer for leaving such lovely comments on dybil that it actually kinda pushed me to write this longer piece connected to it!! ◌ part ii of conversations on love: i | ii

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

When Gojo has love for the taking, he makes no move to reach for it.

It’s unusual for him to be so restrained, being born into greed and predetermined purpose—a one-man clan fated to hold power close to God. There exists a hunger within him, insatiable and stubborn, unstoppable until he gets what he wants. It’s all he’s ever known: to take and devour, simply because he can.

Yet with this, he doesn’t. He can’t seem to.

“I think I’ll always want to be with you, Satoru.”

When you offer your heart to Gojo, he looks at you softly.

You catch his eyes and see the sky, bright, with flecks of light floating on his irises like cotton clouds in its periphery. It’s different from the piercing blue you’re used to—a terrifying riptide that washes you away.

It wasn’t intended as a confession, but Gojo always takes whatever you have to say. He commits it to memory each time; how could he not? Words that come from you flow so naturally, so earnestly that the air around you shifts all on its own.

His lips part slightly, red spatterings lining pink inner corners before they close again. He doesn’t say anything, but you know Gojo and the fingerprints of his soul—the way he bites his lips to withhold himself from speaking.

It’s dangerous, he thinks, how you make wanting something so complicated seem so simple.

He takes a small breath, then you feel it, pressed against you—the faint signatures of his cursed energy overlaying his entirety. It tickles a little. You don’t remember the last time he put it up around you.

A million things run through Gojo’s mind for every split second he breathes, but at this point in time, he counts a million and one—one thought that if he touches you by infinity instead of his hands, he can have this good thing for now, that this is the only way how.

And you’d think this a rejection if any, but he doesn’t move away from you, and the red blooming at the tips of his ears says more than he ever could.

────────────

The subtle intimacy you share with Gojo grows sporadically, from knuckles brushing to pinkies touching. He stands next to you more often, a few inches closer than he used to and sometimes, still, with an infinity connecting you.

────────────

When you hold Gojo’s hand for the first time, he jolts very slightly, as if you’ve shocked him. He’s started to put his infinity down around you again, and you continue the limbo of whatever it is you both are—except this time, he’s made it clearer, just a little bit.

It’s the last few leaves of fall and Gojo skips to an ice cream stand like a pre-schooler on early dismissal. You follow, shaking your head but smiling; he’s the only adult you know that still acts like he’s 5.

“You’re like a horse.” you jest, stopping next to him in line.

“You’re a snail.” he huffs, side-eyeing you, like a child.

You gasp, hitting his arm. He fake-winces, but that’s all it is; Gojo’s the strongest and you don’t know of any human touch that has managed to hurt him, except—

Yeah. Your eyes trail to the side of his neck, hidden in the shadows of his jawline; there’s really nothing, but sometimes you blink and see red, oozing, gushing, leaking—you shake away the thought.

When he receives his ice cream cone stacked with vanilla-strawberry-vanilla and rainbow sprinkles on top, the smile on his face parallels the sun. He looks cozy, beaming against the autumn breeze blowing on his thick gray hoodie. You wonder if he feels just as warm.

(Maybe that’s why you do it, then).

Just as Gojo turns to give you the cone, you reach for his other hand tentatively, shyly. You want to give him an out if he can’t take this, but he doesn’t move. He twitches a little, like he’s been caught off guard, but that’s it.

You catch his eyes widen briefly, just a little bit, before turning into the same soft skies frequenting them lately.

“Sorry, is this okay?” you whisper, peering up at him.

He stares at you for a while, his hand in yours unmoving. You leave a sliver of space between your palms, your own version of his infinity, just in case. And he takes it all in: how tiny your hand is wrapped around his, how gently you speak—how warm he feels now amidst this autumn breeze.

“The strawberry’s really good,” he finally replies, pressing the dessert closer to you, “try it.”

You give him one last look before you indulge in his request. Gojo’s always been good at that: pushing and pulling—pushing you away with non-answers only to pull you back in with something else.

But he doesn’t let go of your hand, so you keep yours there, palms nearly touching. You make a point not to mention how the parts that do touch become clammy for the rest of the afternoon.

────────────

You start to think that your relationship with Gojo is going somewhere, then he disappears (‘gets sealed’ might be the more proper term).

His absence is deafening. You’ve all lost so much, and it hurts, but you carry on knowing full well that this is what being a jujutsu sorcerer means. There aren’t many left to fight his fight, so you do what you can to. You stay with Shoko, mostly, if not going back and forth with Utahime. And the students, the kids—you can’t even bear to think about what they’re going through.

Nights are the hardest, when the world is quiet but your mind is loud. There are too many questions you can’t find the answers to.

What will Gojo come back to? Then the scarier thought: Will he even come back?

You don’t want to doubt him, ever, but your mind continues to play back that day, like a final memory. The unintentional confession; his eyes like the sky.

You don’t want it to be the last important thing you tell him.

“I should start looking into retirement plans, like Nanamin.” you raise an eyebrow, questioning. Gojo’s never spoken this far into the future before, most especially his.

“Work is shit now for you too?” you scoff, leaning back on the wooden ledge.

Gojo rolls his eyes; he isn’t wearing his blindfold today.

“Well, after I remove the old geezers and change everything, there won’t be much left to do.”

You hum in response. He does make a point.

“Also, Megumi won’t need me anymore,” he pouts, whining, “who else will want me around?”

You try to hold back your laugh, wanting so badly to tell him that Megumi doesn’t even really like him around already to begin with—but you figure breaking Gojo’s heart isn’t really something you want to do if you value your peace.

“I don’t know,” you reply, shifting your weight, “I think I’ll always want to be with you, Satoru.”

Even now, especially now. You wish you were with him, too.

────────────

The day you hear of Gojo’s potential return, you drop your breakfast outside the 7-eleven near Jujutsu Tech. You’re supposed to meet up with Utahime for a weekly check-in but your feet take you to Shoko, and the footsteps in your heart have never echoed louder.

This is the first good news in a while—especially after finding out about the state of Megumi and what happened to Tsumiki, your sweet girl Tsumiki.

When Gojo comes back, it’s like he never left. He pops out of the box joking the same way, talking the same way. He proves himself to be the strongest all the same, and when he wins—there are scars, but he wins and that fact stays the same.

So, when you reach for his hand now and he moves away, you’re stuck wondering what’s changed.

────────────

You let it stay that way for a while, your understanding extending to Gojo the way it always has—you don’t push, and he gives you what he can. It honestly isn’t all that bad, because at least he’s still talking to you the way he always has.

Jujutsu society is still shaken from its core. You and all who have survived bear the task of building everything from the ground up; it’s exhausting, especially since most of you are still mourning.

Megumi’s been put in an induced coma; you understand why but it still tugs at your heart when Shoko tells you it might take a while. Everyone else has been assigned to sweep through the rest of Japan, just to ensure that any remaining curses are taken care of.

You see Yuuji and Yuuta visit Megumi sometimes, along with Maki and Toge when they’re free. Gojo’s there pretty often too, using healing sessions with Shoko as an excuse to see the boy he’s practically raised at 17, with you.

And while Gojo’s smiles to everyone else remain as charming as ever, you can always tell when they’re untrue.

“Are you okay?”

You find Gojo a little after midnight on the rooftop of the faculty building. The city always looks pretty from up here—a sea of lights reflected up on the sky. In the many years you’ve known Gojo, you notice that he always comes to places like this to think; you also know that he’s been here almost every single night since being unsealed.

Sneaking up on Gojo is almost impossible; he senses you before he hears you, sees the familiar traces of your cursed energy through his six eyes.

“Can’t sleep thinking about me?” he teases, looking straight ahead.

The steps you take towards him are careful, afraid of running him off like you seem to be lately. You sit beside him and shrug, “These days, yeah.”

It’s times like this when Gojo forgets how honest you can be, how he takes your word for everything, completely.

It’s threatening, he thinks, how you can say so much with so little.

“Well, maybe I can suggest—”

“Seriously, Satoru,” you grip the ledge tightly, knuckles turning white, “please.”

You tend to let Gojo dodge your questions a lot of the time, his elusiveness a hallmark of who he is. So you never sound like you do now, serious, pleading.

Gojo fiddles with his fingers, pondering. He hums lowly before speaking, “Does it matter?”

It hurts you a little, how that’s even a question. He should know better than to ask that to you.

“It matters to me, Satoru,” you sigh, “you know it does.”

You barely catch the way his brows furrow at your response, but there are creases on his blindfold that can’t be created by anything else. And Gojo knows—is so painfully aware of the way you care.

Since coming back, he’s never felt like he’s fully returned. It’s an odd existence of in-between, like he’s everything and nothing all at the same time. The emotions are even worse, overloading his senses with feelings he can never pinpoint.

How does he tell you that he must be fucked in the head? That every second in his mind is another step closer to insanity? That he’s lost your tether on Satoru in pursuit of Gojo—of being a god?

“I’ll tell you,” he starts, “but you have to look away.”

You’ve always treated Gojo tenderly, patiently, and he knows, without a doubt, that no matter what he says you will continue to do the same. But he can’t allow that, not anymore. Not after the way you looked at him that day.

“Okay,” you mutter, turning your head the other way.

He breathes out and you can almost picture it: half-bitten lips and eyes like low tide.

“I’m okay,” he says to the back of your head, “you have nothing to worry about.”

A breeze picks up and brushes past your neck. It’s a lie. He knows it, knows you know it too, but—

it’s easier this way, he thinks, to give you answers when you’re not looking.

Gojo’s never found a weakness he can’t work around, but he might have just found one with you—in your eyes, that read through his every lie. If you turn around now, he’ll want to tell you everything.

“Satoru,” you whisper, letting his name fill the air. You get it—him, and even when you don’t, you try damn hard to because you refuse to let Gojo carry all of it on his own.

There are crescent indents on your palm from squeezing your knuckles too hard. You think, is this how you form shallow cuts on your heart?

“It’s just me,” you continue, facing him when you say it.

He takes you all in—your eyes that hold the city lights, your lips, the only vessel that handles his name so delicately. It’s that look on your face again and Gojo’s hit with the overwhelming truth that whatever it is, he feels the same.

────────────

There’s a secret Gojo keeps, one he’s certain he’ll never tell you: that when he looks at you upon his return and finds an emotion he can’t name, he’s never felt so afraid.

He takes in the shadows under your eyes and the sunkenness of your cheeks—the number of blinks it takes you to reign in tears on the brink of leaking. Your voice shakes when you say his name.

Shoko tells him about it because she knows you never will—about how you’ve been running yourself dry, speeding through colonies to gather intel for any possible way to break the seal. She tells him about the sleepless nights, how she catches you standing outside his office at 3 a.m. before travelling to Utahime the next morning.

And he cannot comprehend it at first, cannot understand how he’s caused you to crumble this way.

If this is all because of him, how you’ve broken yourself all for his sake, he can’t allow it. To see you ruin yourself over him, over anyone ever—you deserve better.

So, when Gojo has love for the taking, he makes no move to reach for it; he cannot possibly take any more from you if this is what is left of you when he does.

────────────

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you catch him by the door of the conference room.

Rebuilding an entire society requires work and apparently a lot of meetings. Gojo doesn’t usually go to most of them, leaving you and Utahime to carry the chunk of his attendance when he’s not there. In the rare times that he does go, he makes it a point to be the last one in and the first one out. Utahime hates him for it but you don’t blame him—he isn’t exactly amicable with other figures of authority.

He pauses when he steps out of the door, hands in pockets as he turns to face you.

You’re not mad or anything, just stating the fact. You lean against the wall next to you, keeping your arms crossed. There are still people filing out of the conference room, some eyeing the two of you curiously as they pass by.

Gojo glances at them before clearing his throat, “Right, I’ve been avoiding the paperwork you left in my office,” he speaks louder, practically announcing it to everyone in the vicinity, “let’s finish it now.”

You don’t know whether it’s irritating that Gojo’s so terribly bad at acting, or comforting that he still can’t, for the life of him, successfully lie to you.

He motions for you to follow him as he strolls down the hallway. You intentionally lag a few steps behind, careful not to encroach on his space lest it make him avoid you any more than he already is.

Stepping into Gojo’s office after so long feels weird, like you belong here but only to a memory of it—as if closing the door behind you feels like activating a muscle you haven’t for a while. It’s been months after all.

Your eyes skim over the entire room, zeroing in on the stacks of paper lined up on his desk; paperwork has always been Gojo’s least favorite part of the job, often leaving you to do them with him (or alone, when you’re feeling generous). Not much has changed in his office; the mini living space still exists to the left of the room, with little bits of you in its interiors—the pillows, the coffee table books.

Gojo plops down on the sofa chair and props his feet up on the ottoman, giving four scrolls to his phone before pocketing it. He has the audacity to casually offer you the seat across from him, as if nothing’s wrong—as if he hasn’t been avoiding you for god’s sake.

Ever since the rooftop, he’s canceled lunch with you six times for reasons that you’re now realizing are less likely to be true. He’s kept a distance of at least one person in between you at all times, and to this day, you still don’t understand why.

You sigh, taking a seat and leaning back to cross your legs.

“You’re so bad at acting.” you start.

Being with Gojo for so long, you’ve come to realize that there’s no point being angry with him when your heart can never take it.

“I technically wasn’t lying.” he replies, sticking an index finger up.

“Yeah, I can see that,” you snicker, nodding to his desk.

It’s always like this with Gojo: he pulls you in and you follow. No matter the distance between you, when you sit down together like this, it still always flows so easily. The banter you’ve built together over a decade and more shines through no matter what state your relationship is in.

Neither of you say anything until Gojo replaces his blindfold for his sunglasses, placing the piece of cloth on the coffee table.

You break the silence.

“Why have you been avoiding me?” you ask quietly. Gojo aches at that, how you still choose to regard him so kindly.

There’s a war in his head right now—a million thoughts and one. Why has he been avoiding you?

Gojo’s a pretty bad communicator; for how much he talks, he doesn’t really say much—and maybe that’s the root of all this. There are too many things he wants to say but can’t formulate in the right way.

“If it’s something I did, can you at least let me know?” you continue. Gojo frowns, how can you be wronged yet still think of yourself as the one to blame?

“Why do you do that?” he tuts, head tilting sideways as his hands dig deeper into his pockets.

“Do what?” you furrow your brows, confused.

“You didn’t do anything, so don’t worry about it.” he says dismissively.

You arch an eyebrow; he has it all wrong.

“Satoru, I’m not worried because I feel guilty,” you sit up, inching towards the edge of your seat, “I’m worried because you’re pushing me away.” your voice is level, but your pupils shake.

Something grips at his chest seeing you this way; together or apart, he seems to be the main contributor to your heartache.

You wonder if confronting him like this is any good if he’s not going to say anything anyway.

“If you want space, that’s okay, I get it, but,” you exhale, “at least just tell me why.”

This entire time avoiding you, Gojo’s had you on his mind—the million and one. He’s come to terms with what he feels when you’re together, and how it amplifies when you’re not.

It’s shitty of him to practically ghost you, not just in text but in real life too. But he’s thought about it logically, really, that removing himself from your life should be just like ripping off a bandaid—painful but quick. At least that way, you’d get over it fast.

He’d been resigned to doing that and that was the plan—until now.

All it takes is seeing that look in your eyes, and his resolve falls apart.

“I can’t.” he speaks softly. The part that hurts the most is that beneath his sunglasses, you still see eyes holding the sky.

You think you want to cry.

You take this as your answer and close your eyes, taking a deep breath before getting up to leave. If this is goodbye, you don’t want your last interaction to be an awkward standstill of him watching you bawl in his office chair.

You push yourself up with the armrest only to sit back down—because Gojo is right in front of you, blocking your way. His infinity is up but touching, creating tingles on your knees.

“Wait,” he swallows, a franticness you’ve never seen before. His head stays down as he bites his lips, sunglasses hanging by his fingertips. You wonder what he wants to say; you want to tell him that it’s just you—that you’ll always want to hear it all.

What comes next is unlike any version of Satoru you have ever known—nervous and uncertain, almost like he’s afraid. He lowers himself, slowly coming down to his knees in front of you. A giant of a man so small in your presence.

“I don’t know how.” he mutters, dropping his sunglasses to the floor.

You blink once, twice, still surprised by what’s in front of you. Gojo has always towered above you, has always known how to do anything and everything so effortlessly without fail.

Watching him now, with every inhale and exhale dragging in slow motion, you do your best not to startle him.

“How to what?” you whisper like it’s fragile.

He looks up, eyes locking with yours. A reaction happens in that moment—the split second of all his thoughts collapsing into one. You see a clear sky, blue and bright as day, the Satoru he saves for you—while he sees you, with that look on your face, the one that he knows has always only meant love.

The sincerity in your gaze overwhelms him—makes him look away before it becomes too much. Red blooms at the tips of his ears as he bites the inner corners of his lips, fingers grabbing at the fabric of his pants. You’re afraid he might run away again, but he doesn’t and stays right where you are.

“You know…” he looks to the side, pouting, “whatever you do….”

“Like…?” you coax lightly, trying hard to hide the small smile forming on your lips.

You wonder how many versions of Satoru you’ll meet in your lifetime, and if this one, shy and nervous, will be one you’ll fit into the crevices of your heart just like all the others.

He grips his pants tighter, fabric bunching under his fingers, “When you hold my hand… those things. You get it.”

And you do (get it), so you don’t push, taking whatever Gojo has to give you like you always have.

The tension relieves from you slowly, comforted by the fact that at least he’s given you his reasons now (no matter how vague they still seem to be). That at least there are no non-answers this time.

You tell yourself that it’s okay, that you’re content as long as Gojo’s in your life even without the possibility of becoming something more.

“Ok—”

But there’s always one thing you forget about Gojo—

“So show me how.”

—in the moments you least expect it, he speaks the words that matter most.

────────────

You choose to show him slowly, gently, like the trickling introduction of water to a man who is first learning how to drink.

In the first few weeks of you and Gojo readjusting to one another, he turns on his infinity again—but only when he gets close enough to touch you. Lunches together happen more often, dinners sometimes too. Then he puts his infinity down, indefinitely.

For the most part, your relationship falls into the usual steps of your dynamic with Gojo; there’s no pressure for anything and he likes that, appreciates the time you’re giving him to learn things at his own pace.

It grows organically that way: knuckles brushing as you both reach for the stapler, pinkies touching whenever you walk side-by-side during site visits—until you’re able to hold his hand fully again, leaving that little infinity between your palms for him to close (hopefully, one day).

────────────

The faculty room is cold, especially during winter. The heating system is never warm enough to keep your hands from shaking whenever you mix your morning coffee.

“So loud so early,” Gojo saunters into the kitchen like he owns the place, hands in pockets as he approaches the pantry.

You stop mixing, ceasing the clinking of the spoon against your mug. “How are you not freezing?”

He shrugs, grabbing his box of (heavily sugared) cereal. “I guess I’m just hot.” he says, turning to wiggle his eyebrows.

You roll your eyes and set your coffee on the table, Gojo following with a bowl brimming with cereal and milk.

Mornings usually consist of you and Gojo, with an occasional new hire who has an early class that day. Most of the time, it’s just you two though, with Shoko coming in much closer to lunch time already.

“Want some?” he asks, holding out his spoon.

It’s routine—Gojo asks and you decline, choosing to save yourself from the cavities that he somehow manages to evade despite having a diet of 80% sugar.

Today though, you’re feeling a little adventurous.

You nod, opening your mouth. Gojo’s eyes widen, nearly dropping the spoon at your request. You see the flush of his cheeks and smile, corners of your mouth extending wider. The spoon is shoved to your mouth too quickly, almost like he’s embarrassed to feed you (considering he’s never before).

“Too sweet,” you say, your face scrunching at the copious amount of sugar you’ll feel for days.

“Like me, right?” Gojo winks from beside you.

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Gojo throughout this whole relationship trial period, he recovers from any state within a nanosecond. There’s no end to how shameless he can be.

“Sure,” you drawl sarcastically and Gojo smiles like it’s high praise.

You sip your coffee slowly, revelling in the heat that flows down your throat.

“Can I have half of that?” you point to his bowl. Gojo looks at you, confused, but slides it over anyway.

What happens next is an abomination to Gojo’s eyes—pure absolute disgust: you pour half of his cereal into your coffee and mix, taking a sip and crunching on a few pieces every now and then.

His face contorts into complete distaste, horror and revulsion in the way his mouth hangs open.

“What are you doing? That’s gross!” he nearly yells, reaching over to bring your mug down. His hand goes over yours for a moment, still causing gallops in his heartbeat.

You laugh, giggling as he processes what you’d wasted his cereal on. It honestly doesn’t taste that bad, you think.

“You’re weird,” he says to you, the grin on his face uncontained. This morning, he feels fond, like the butterflies in his stomach are warm, tickling him from the inside. “Give me.” he motions to your mug.

You hold it up for him to take a sip but he wraps a hand around yours when he tastes, sticking his tongue out once the bitterness of your coffee hits. You set the mug down but his hand takes yours, interlacing your fingers together.

Gojo doesn’t normally reach for your hand, much less interlace them together—a recent evolution to your hand-holding. But this feels nice, how your fingers fit right in the spaces of his.

You turn to him, a shy smile on your face. The tips of his ears are red but he looks at you the same, “Your hands were cold,” he pouts, “is this– is this okay?”

“Yeah, it’s warm. Thank you, Satoru.” you nod, beaming. He hopes you see the light in his eyes, how it feels to be ignited within him only when he’s spending breakfasts like this with you.

────────────

Shoko asks what you are and you don’t know what to tell her other than you’re happy and it’s good. Gojo’s existence is loud and vibrant, easy to spot from miles away—but he cares for you discreetly, in the hand that gently rests on your lower back while crossing the street, and the seemingly unlimited supply of your favorite coffee when you have no recollection of restocking it ever.

He gives you a new mug for Christmas, one with little cereals painted all over while you give him his own tube of hand cream that he claims always smells like you.

During the faculty New Year celebration, you hear one of the new hires make a move on Gojo, and you aren’t bothered by it or anything, simply walking past to sip your sake by the couch. You can hear them talk a bit from the kitchen, but you try not to pry despite how curious you are about his response.

Until—

“I’m taken,” you hear Gojo say bluntly.

Everything rings in your ears after that. The countdown music is loud, but your heart beats louder; there are murmurs and footsteps around you, but only one man crouches down to check on you, glass of water in hand.

You snap out of it and see blue, the sky—a familiar light; you don’t think you can control the smile on your face, the alcohol lowering your inhibitions to paint on something lovesick.

And when he smiles back, pink lips stretching wide—oh your heart can’t take it. He places one hand on your knee, rubbing gently. You hear it faintly, how he asks if you’re okay, but all you can do is nod, words failing to express how you feel right now.

The countdown starts. 3 — and you take his face in your hands, squishing his cheeks to an image of him many, many years ago. 2 — you go closer and his eyes go wide, a mixture of panic and surprise, but soft at the same time. 1 — you lean in and he closes his eyes, his chest on rampage. Then it lands, there, on the tip of his nose: a delicate peck and the smell of sake mixed with mint (like the lip balm you always carry around in your pocket).

When you pull away from him, you’re smiling the biggest he’s ever seen, and he doesn’t know it, but he does the same.

────────────

That kiss to his nose serves as the catalyst to the months that follow: Gojo becomes more comfortable touching you now, and though he blushes every single time, there’s nothing to be ashamed of because you do too. Shoko can’t believe the slow burn this is taking you both, but you think you like it—like the slow drizzle of honey on Gojo’s favorite breakfast waffles.

“How is it?” you ask, watching as Gojo takes a big bite.

“D Beft.” he replies, mouth full as he chews. You take the seat beside him and take a spoonful.

“There’s a secret ingredient.” you say mischievously, wiggling your eyebrows.

He swallows before he scoffs, “What?” cutting up another piece, “Love?”

You’re surprised because he says it so casually, and Gojo’s never talked about love, has never even mentioned the word since this shift in your relationship. He realizes a beat late by the expression on your face and gets flustered, thinking of how to brush it off like it didn’t just happen.

You had meant to say that you used that infused sugar he buys whenever he goes to Kyoto, but… you suppose love works too. He should know by now, right?

“If it is?” you whisper, putting down your spoon.

Gojo doesn’t know how to approach this, really, but he’s learned leaps and bounds to back out now. So he clears his throat and composes himself then says, “Good. ‘Cause that’s what I put in your coffee too.”

You laugh and the tension dissipates; there are hearts in your eyes for how hard Gojo has tried after denying himself of this for so long.

He stares at you—at the laugh lines by your eyes and the soft curves of your lips, the moment moving much too slow. He’s drawn in until you’re all too close, a few centimeters from your noses touching.

Your laughter dies and your cheeks feel like they’re on fire; he’s so close you think he might kiss you. The signs are there—his eyes scaling your face to focus on your lips, his tongue peeping ever so slightly to wet his lips. So you wait.

But he doesn’t, because he moves away after wiping his thumb on the side of your mouth. Even though you know there was nothing there.

Gojo continues to eat, blabbering about a site visit he’s assigned to next week, but you don’t miss the way his ears are fully red and how he’s biting his lips to death.

•

The tension this time is different; instead of a growing rift, you can’t seem to be close enough. Every time you part ways, he lets go of your hand more reluctantly—as if he wants to say more, do more, but stops himself while he still can.

When he leaves for missions, you kiss his cheek, pulling him in by the hand and lingering there, shyly. He gets embarrassingly red but tries to cover it up by telling you not to miss him too much (even though you know you will, and he knows he’ll miss you more).

Your near-kisses with Gojo happen more frequently, and it comes to a point where he even manages to land one on your forehead, while you fall asleep next to him on his office couch.

It’s driving you crazy, this tension. You try to kiss him a few times on the lips, but he evades them each time. You’ve caught Gojo staring at your lips more times than you can count; if that isn’t a sign, you don’t know what is.

It’s insane, now that Gojo thinks about it, how he’s come so far yet the prospect of kissing you properly still scares him. What if he fucks up? Doesn’t do it right? What if it’s not how he wants you to be kissed?

There’s that secret Gojo will never tell you, of how seeing that look on you has never gotten him more afraid. And he’s worked through that now, but it’s evolved into something else: how Gojo is now afraid of love, more than anything else, not because of loss but because he might not know how.

And kissing you, loving you this way—he’s never done it before, doesn’t know how to make you feel love without his lips shaking and heart palpitating; how to do it while letting you know he feels the same.

•

It happens during an assignment to exorcise curses out of town. They aren’t as bad as they used to be, but they’re still stronger than what any of the available sorcerers right now can handle.

You don’t remember the last time you saw Gojo use his technique that way—almost forgotten how powerful and ruthless he can be. Every time since, holding your hand, keeping you close—he’s just been your Satoru.

Your apartment for the weekend is a two-bedroom unit with one bathroom and a decently sized living area and kitchenette; Gojo always chooses the room in front of the bathroom because he tends to wake up in the middle of the night to pee (information you know from your many other assignments with him before). Still, going as what you are now—it feels different.

There’s a charged air between you as you move around the unit; you make your nightly tea while Gojo looks through the groceries for some crackers. It’s peaceful and quiet—domestic almost, but there are goosebumps on your skin for reasons you can’t explain. Being around Gojo lately has felt that way.

He brushes past you to throw the finished packet of crackers and the feeling intensifies; it’s not awkward, just tense, like anticipation sitting deep in your bellies, waiting on each other to make the first move.

He announces that he’ll use the bathroom first, if you don’t mind, and you motion for him to go ahead. Your mind is fuzzy and having Gojo around seems to only make it worse.

When you walk past the bathroom and straight to your room, you hear Gojo humming that soft pop tune from a popular girl group playing on the radio earlier. You giggle, thinking it’s sweet—how he sings obnoxiously around everyone else but is actually pretty good when it’s just him, alone.

You still have the rest of the weekend in this area, having agreed to monitor the site and any nearby areas for other suspicious activity contributing to such a large curse, but at least the worst of it is over (maybe just to you though; Gojo hates paperwork).

The sound of running water stops and you hear the bathroom door swing open. You don’t see Gojo when you exit your room but he leaves the door open to release any remaining steam. Gathering your things, you head straight in.

There’s a reason why people say showers are good for the mind but you still don’t know what it is, because the only thought plaguing your head right now is Gojo—and whether you should greet him goodnight, if you should kiss his cheek or hug him tight. The tension between you now is palpable, almost like an electric current waiting to zap on both ends.

Your mind is so out of it that you don't realize you’re missing your skincare bag until after you finish brushing your teeth and dressing for bed. You open the bathroom door with the sole intention of going back to your room to get it, but instead, you’re met with a wall of chest.

Gojo’s eyes are wide, bright blue with damp strands of white falling like curtains barely shielding the sky. He’s just as surprised as you are, toothbrush in his hand as you hold up the towel wrapped around your head.

You’ve seen Gojo in his pajamas many times before—white long sleeves with gray cotton pants, but your eyes trail to his collarbones and the way the bathroom lights cast it under a soft glow. The redness on his cheeks, a visual manifestation of the heat on yours.

Gojo can’t stop staring at your lips, at how soft they look—at how soft you look fresh out of the shower. The little baby hairs sticking out under your towel are cute, and he leans in without knowing—a pull he can’t seem to resist. For once in his life, Gojo’s mind is still.

You try to meet him halfway, tiptoeing, but you’re a little out of your element; you don’t know where to put your hands and your heart’s about to explode out of your chest. When your noses touch, you can’t breathe, closing your eyes while you wait for it.

But it doesn’t come.

You feel Gojo’s breath stilling before speeding up into little exhales. Something is wrong. You open your eyes and find him staring back at you, a version of Gojo you haven’t seen in a while—that you rarely see ever, except that day during your confrontation in his office.

Concern laces your features and you move back a little, hands coming up to caress his cheeks. His eyes still look frantic, but they focus on you when you cup his cheeks so gently.

“Satoru,” you whisper, voice grounding. His breaths slow down a little.

You realize that it must be true then, what they say, that those who love to be feared, fear to be loved, because you’ve never seen anyone afraid of something so good as Gojo is of this.

“Satoru,” you repeat, massaging his temples with your thumb, “we don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Gojo hates it, how you’ve always had to adjust for him. He hates that he can’t give you this one thing, hates that you’re still so patient, that he’s still so afraid. He swallows, closing his eyes tight before opening them again.

“I want to,” he chokes out, “I just don’t know—”

You chuckle, without judgment, “I don’t either,” you lean forward, foreheads touching, “but do you want to try together?”

You learn that Gojo sees himself so differently from how you do—and maybe that’s everyone, but Gojo tends to say things while doing the other. He says he can’t bother with kids, but continues to take so many of them under his wing anyway; he calls your cereal concoction disgusting but tries it regardless; and he says he can’t think about love, doesn’t know how, but proceeds to try so much harder, everyday.

When you look at Gojo, you see a heart so big, so capable, that he can’t see it himself.

You nudge his nose with yours and he breathes deeply, closing his eyes once again. If he doesn’t do this now, how much longer till he does?

Gojo hums before nodding his head slightly. His hands come up to cover yours, toothbrush wedged in the spaces between his fingers; they’re clammy, he’s sure, but he’s kept you waiting long enough.

When you kiss Gojo for the first time, everything trembles—his pupils, his lips, the breath he takes. It’s all shaky and nervous, but your lips touch and all you know is that you like it there. He’s a little bit stiff but you don’t mind, pressing closer just for a little bit before pulling away.

Gojo keeps your hands in place, half-lidded eyes staring at you lazily. His ears are fully red now but he’s giving you a look you’ve never seen before—like lightning crackling in the gaps between his eyelids.

When you kiss Gojo for the first time, you don’t expect it to be by the bathroom door of a rented apartment, while away on a mission. You don’t expect it to be in your pajamas, towel wrapped in your hair as you’re getting ready for bed. You definitely don’t expect him to guide your hands down his neck while he places his on your lower back, squeezing lightly before pulling you in to kiss you again.

This time, his lips move more pliantly, parting yours slightly; he tastes mint, mixed with the strawberry candy he had earlier and it’s nothing he could have ever imagined before, but is now everything he’s ever wanted. The push and pull between you is magnetic, soft lips and the intermingling of something steamy in the air. All Gojo can think of now is to take, to devour—to keep you with him, like this, always.

You wonder if Gojo is lying—that he’s never done this before, because you don’t think you can kiss anyone after this and not think of his lips on yours.

By the time you part, the air is significantly warmer. Your fingers thread through the hair at the base of his neck and you smile, sighing. Gojo looks warm, with his swollen lips and red cheeks.

“That…” you trail off, nudging his nose.

Gojo looks at you fondly; to ever even think he could have this now, with you—he doesn’t believe in god but you must be his prayer come true.

“We can practice a bit more, I think.” he pulls you closer, hands gripping your hips.

You feel it against you, something solid and firm against your stomach and your eyes go wide at the realization; Gojo does the same.

“Satoru, you–” he moves back and freezes, untangling himself from you completely. There’s a faint outline on the crotch of his pants and your whole face goes red.

“Let me use the bathroom real quick.” he panics, rushing past you and closing the bathroom door.

You stand there stunned for a good minute before you shake out of it, laughing. Gojo yells about how you’re being so mean, making fun of him when he’s like this, but you aren’t—not really.

It’s been a long time getting to this point with Gojo, but considering all things, you think, this might just be the beginning.

Tags

gojo satoru jujutsu kaisen

2K notes View Post

ara-ara-bitch

2 years ago

FIRST ANGST FIC??? BABE the AMOUNT of DESCRIPTORS I COULD FEEL WHAT WAS DESCRIBED OML

permafrost

kaeya alberich x reader

inspired by @hiraya-rawr’s post here

notes: established relationship, heavy angst, slight gore(?),

tw: major character death

Despite his seemingly friendly exterior, Kaeya Alberich was a cold man. His touch could give frostbite, and his words could leave one frozen. Life had him build walls of ice around his heart. A fortress impenetrable to all except you.

You, with your sunny disposition and comforting warmth. You, a traveling merchant who settled in Mondstat. As long as Kaeya had you by his side it felt like sunlight was warming him from head to toe, soothing the chill in his heart. You were like a fireplace on a freezing night, one that Kaeya couldn’t help but huddle closer to. The pain of his past was all worth it if it meant he could have you.

Kaeya didn’t realize the true meaning of “the light of my life” until he married his.

A newlywed man shouldn’t be working the day away, he muses to himself while eyeing paperwork. Kaeya had stayed in bed with you that morning for as long as he could, peppering kisses against your bare skin. Maybe even lingering by the doorstep to give you “one last kiss” goodbye.

Fidgeting with his wedding band (part of a matching set, with a sapphire in it’s center), he truly couldn’t wait to go home. It was funny how things he used to think of as mundane were much more pleasant when with you. All he could think about was having dinner together then relaxing with you in his embrace until he fell asleep.

Another busy day for the ever inefficient Favonius Knights. Kaeya found himself at Windrise with his order. It turned out that caravan carrying imported goods from Liyue had collapsed during a raid. 3 dead, 4 wounded. Kaeya planned to finish this efficiently yet as quickly as possible, so he could once again resume newly-wedded bliss.

Then, at a glance, he saw it. The faint glimmer of blue that he saw every morning in your shared bed. On the hands that passed him a cup of coffee before work. On the fingers that caressed his face, around his blind spot, during intimate moments. A glittering blue stone embedded in a silver band. A symbol of his love and hopes for the future.

Kaeya walked hesitantly to the the wrecked carriage paying little mind to the frost that followed him in his wake. His boots thumped heavily against the soil. Tendrils of ice scattered over pebbles and grass. You had told him that morning, over your morning coffee, that you were going to oversee a shipment of goods from Liyue. You had told him, when he kissed you goodbye, that you would see him at home.

Kaeya believed in your words like a devout worshipper, like a faithful man before the Divine. You were the only truth in a sea of a hundred lies. If you said you would be home, you would be. You had never lied to him. Not once.

Until today.

The hand found under the rubble, wearing a sapphire wedding ring, was devoid of life. Kaeya bent down and gave it a squeeze. You didn’t respond. He gripped you again, a little harder this time, and yet you remained limp in his hand. The metal band felt bitterly cold against Kaeya’s palm. A mockery to his belief that his happiness could last forever.

It felt like an eternity and a minute before they could get your body from under the wreckage. Kaeya scooped you into his arms and held you against his chest. He rocked you back and forth while burying his face into your hair. Kaeya felt his own chest rise and fall against your unmoving body. Whatever semblance of warmth you had left, he would take it. Kaeya would soak you into his skin until he was swallowed whole.

“Please,” he whispered, “it can be anyone. Anyone but you.”

You didn’t respond. You did nothing except lie still in his arms. Kaeya laced your hands together, so that both rings were touching. He wanted to scream. Cry until his voice was shattered. Yell so loud that it was certain you would hear him from the other side. Instead Kaeya pressed his lips to your face, staining your cheeks with his tears.

“It’s so, so cold.”

Windrise, with all its greenery, felt like an icy tundra, and he was a straggler caught in its snowstorm. The world had suddenly dropped a hundred degrees, and you had taken all of it’s warmth with you.

————

a/n: hello everyone! probably will rewrite this in the future because this is my first angst fic, but I hope you liked it :))

Tags

kaeya alberich genshin angst kaeya angst

182 notes View Post

ara-ara-bitch

7 months ago

this was so cute and then it went craycray and gagged me

Takami Keigo doesn't want to see you.

Of course, he's too well trained to say it in so many words, but when he 'forgets' his session this afternoon, you get the message.

Unfortunately for him, you're stubborn. You show up at his apartment in the dormitories, ring his bell until your fingers numb.

Only then does he crack open the door, just enough for you to catch his forbidding smile, a caustic gleam to his eyes. "What can I help you with, this fine evening?"

"You missed our appointment," you say pleasantly. "This is the third time."

"Oh, must have just slipped my mind," he says with a dismissive little wave. "I'll catch you next time."

The door slams in your face.

Being so curtly dismissed by a top ranking officer should probably send you into a panic, but the stats you pulled up for him after his no-show are even more concerning. This is quickly turning into an emergency, and unfortunately it's your job on the line if he succumbs to corruption.

Who would blame the second most powerful Sentinel alive, when there's a feckless guide as a scapegoat.

"I'm going to ring the bell again," you say, loudly.

After a moment of silence, you think he must not have heard you.

Then the door swings open. "Fine," he snaps.

You follow him to the living room, watch as he drops himself on the couch with a sigh, eyes squeezed shut.

You'd never known guiding to be this much of a chore for Sentinels. Most of your roster is rather clingy and covetous of your time. None of them has ever been late to an appointment with you.

"Well?" he prods. "Get on with it."

You hesitate. The tension he seems to be holding will make this a lot more difficult, strenuous for you both. "Do you maybe want to talk for a bit? Or I could put on some white noise."

He opens his eyes just enough to give you a cutting look. "No."

You surrender with a sigh, coming to sit next to him on the couch. Every Sentinel prefers contact a different way; some want you to hug them, pet their hair, a few have even asked you to kiss them, fuck them, though you've never fulfilled that type of request, your boundaries in this job too firm for it.

You want to ask him what would make this easier for him, but you're sure waiting any longer will only set him off. So, delicately, you take his hand.

The first draw is always the hardest, the corrupt energy being nullified by your own. Some outside force reaching in, invasive despite the relief.

Takami flinches.

You go slower, a soft steady ebb, pulling the poison from him in silken thread.

His hand relaxes in yours.

You reach deeper, welcoming the full flood between you, warmth and light suffusing you both. And it feels how it's supposed to -- natural.

When your watch chimes, signaling the sessions end, Takami blinks out of his stupor. He'd melted during the thirty minutes you worked on him, body curled toward yours, face falling onto your shoulder.

He pulls away swiftly, shocked by his own willingness to lean on you.

You rise, marking off the details of your appointment on your tablet. "I can come back tomorrow, to finish up. You haven't been guided in a long time, so I couldn't get it all in one session. Does 2pm work for you?"

He's not prepared for the question. "Um. Yeah?"

You mark that down as well, then see yourself out.

It takes three more sessions for you to fully clear the corrupted energy from his body. In his haze he admits to you the reason he's so standoffish to Guides, why he dodges his sessions with such fervor.

"It's never felt good. Always felt like I'm being held down, trapped. Made me feel antsy, nervous." He buries his face against your throat, inhaling deeply. You'd started off just holding his hand again, but now he hugs your entire arm against his chest, your fingers twined. "It's not like that with you."

"I'm glad, Mr. Takami," you return. "Please don't ignore my emails from now on."

As you make your notes, you ask him his availability for next month.

He blinks at you. "You're not coming back tomorrow?"

You check your calendar. You'd had to push back several of your regular appointments to make room for the past few days. "I'm booked solid for the next two weeks, at least."

You glance at him, taking in his appearance, his general well being. You reach a hand out to cup his cheek, urging him to meet your eyes. He startles, first, before leaning into your touch.

"You seem fine," you decide, pulling away, already heading for the door. "I'll contact you later about our next session."

He trails after you, linger at the precipice as you take the elevator back down to your floor.

...

He never ignores you emails, after that.

In fact, he sends many of his own. He gets your phone number, somehow. Some days he shows up with coffee, or snacks, sits with you on the couch while you eat.

He's always touching you during those times, brushing hair behind your ears or straightening your shirt collar. Mostly he just holds your hand, playing with your fingers or clutching it in his own lap.

You don't guide him during any of these impromptu visits, too weary from the rest of your overfull schedule -- but you've heard of this type of attachment from other Guides.

Sentinels tend to imprint on guides they have a decent connection with. Part survival instinct, part status seeking. A Sentinel without a guide is doomed. A Sentinel with a high match-rate is likely to be stronger than their peers.

But that's the thing about un-bonded Sentinels, they're always on the lookout for a better Guide, their perfect mate.

Takami is overly attached to you now, but it will pass.

...

Or so you thought.

You're sent out into the aftermath of a battle that rocks the city. Dozens of Sentinels pushed themselves to the breaking point, on the brink of corruption, about to turn into the very monsters they fight to suppress.

You spot Takami in the midst of the wreckage. Exhausted, but giving you a shakey smile when your eyes meet. He limps toward you, so glad to see you, so ready for the safety and warmth of your arms--

Someone calls your name. Urgent, an emergency. Another Sentinel with no one to take care of them.

You turn away from Takami, and you go.

He'd fought hard, but his body has grown used to the abuse over the years. He's in bad shape, but it's not life-threatening like some of the others you help today.

It's hours before you can see him.

Slumped on a curb, hands folded neatly in his lap. Like he's been waiting so patiently for you this whole time.

You come to your knees before him, letting him take your hands, draw you closer. "Why didn't you go to another Guide?"

Surely he could have found someone else, despite the chaos of the scene. If not you, one of the high ranking Guides, slotted exclusively for S-rank Sentinels.

He looks at you, trembling, confused. "I don't want another Guide."

When he asks if you'll hold him, you do. You take him in your arms, let his weight settle on you. Feel his warmth all around you, his breath against your shoulder.

"And I don't want you to guide anyone else," he murmurs.

You stroke his nape. "I know. I'm sorry. You'll find your Guide soon enough, and then you can have each other all to yourselves."

His grip tightens. He braces you against him -- instead of a heady tightness, you're constricted.

"I already found my Guide," he whispers into your throat.

Then he bites.

Tags

my hero academia hawks

600 notes View Post

ara-ara-bitch

2 years ago

Green Slumber

— "Ah, look! Is Alhaitham taking a nap?" "Shh...You're too loud, Paimon." "Th-That's not true…Paimon was definitely whispering-wait, who is that beside him?"

— Alhaitham

Traveller & Paimon lines are taken from the official Genshin Twitter post. [Masterlist]

Congrats Alhaitham, your birthday postpones the fic where I tear you apart for scamming me. I usually don't write birthday fics but pretty art. Can you tell I'm not used to writing second pov and rushed again :)) I don't know how to end fics.

"Ah, look! Is Alhaitham taking a nap?"

Lumine looks in the direction of Paimon's voice, her floating companion peeking through a room with a giddy face. No doubt hatching some sort of plan to get back at the scribe for his words during their quest to rescue Lesser Lord Kusanali. On one hand, she should probably scold Paimon for immediately jumping to payback since the reason both of them are here is to wish the man a happy birthday before departing to the next region. But on the other hand...

“Shh…You’re too loud Paimon,” Lumine whispers as she tip-toes towards the door and gently pushes it open further. She's pointedly ignoring the face Paimon is throwing her for acting just as bad as she is. If anyone asks, she'll make an excuse that she was just being a polite guest and if Alhaitham was sleeping, she would excuse herself quietly. In no way is it her curiosity to see the ever-serious Alhaitham in any mode that's defenseless and relaxed. So with Paimon’s head hovering above hers, they both poke their heads into the room. Alhaitham doesn’t look any different from the last time they met, although asleep, he looks far less intimidating. He’s leaned back in the wooden chair, arm propped up to hold his lolling head in place. Calculating amber and teal eyes are closed as his chest falls up and down slowly with each breath while the gentle sun paints him in warm yellows and soothing whites. If Lumine had never met Alhaitham before, she would have thought he may have been the Dendro archon with how serene the scene itself is. Something that almost makes her want to reach out and touch him just to check if he’s real or not.

"Th-That's not true…Paimon was definitely whispering-wait, who is that beside him?" Paimon’s voice tapers off at the end, eyes alight with confusion. Lumine tears her eyes away from Alhaitham to look at where Paimon is pointing. Seated on the desk right in front of Alhaitham’s sleeping figure, a stranger hums softly with their ankles locked as they swing their legs ideally in the air. In their hands appears to be the beige book Alhaitham usually carries around, the one about physics and motion if she remembers correctly. Now that she’s looking - she can't believe she missed an entire person because she got distracted by the image of a sleeping Alhaitham - the stranger looks far more comfortable in the room than she is. Maybe they're another roommate? Although Alhaitham doesn't seem like the type to have an extensive list of friends and she's positive she's met most if not all of the people Alhaitham could call close enough to have them in his home. She shares a look with Paimon who returns it with a shrug of the shoulders. Neither one of them has ever seen this mysterious person before.

"Haitham, this section here about..." the stranger's voice brings blue and yellow eyes back to the room. Lumine watches intrigued as the stranger finally looks up from the book to see Alhaitham fast asleep. A soft sigh escapes their lips as they close the book, shoulders dropping into something more relaxed, and they just sit and look at the man. They have the same look in their eye but instead, their hand slowly reaches out until their fingertips meet the tips of soft silver hair. Pushing strands away from his face before waltzing down to caress his cheek. It's an intimate touch and Lumine isn't sure whether she should be here interrupting the moment. The stranger surely seems to be having fun as they return to playing with silver strands. Through it all, Alhaitham remains asleep yet, his body seems to lean into the touch naturally. As if these practiced movements have happened before.

Oh. Oh, she understands now.

“Hey, Paimon…” Lumine starts as she slowly picks herself off the floor as quietly as possible lest she disturbs the peace. "We should leave."

"Huh? But why? We've never seen this person before right? What if they're one of those bad guys that are after Alhaitham because he's the acting grand sage!" Paimon adamantly nods, small hands clutched into little fists. It would be cute if it weren't for the fact that Paimon has no sense of volume. Before Lumine can reach out and press her palm against Paimon's mouth to stop her from shouting again, a light chuckle rings out. They both freeze in place, flicking their heads back inside the room.

"You know...if you talk any louder you will actually wake him up," the stranger drops their hand as they turn to face the duo. There's mirth dancing in their eyes and Lumine has enough decency to look embarrassed at getting caught red-handed. Paimon on the other hand has no such reservations.

"Ah, sorry! We didn't mean to! Wait-Hey! Don't turn this on Paimon. Who are you and what are you doing in Alhaitham's house?!" Paimon stomps her feet in the air, crossing her arms as she pouts at the stranger. Her frown further increased by the stranger laughing harder.

"I basically live here. There's no need to be so on edge. I doubt Haitham could sleep so easily if a stranger was in his home," they say, gesturing to the still peacefully unaware scribe who hasn't moved a muscle since they arrived.

"Ohh, so you're like that blond guy from before! Ka-Ka something? But wait, why were you touc-"

"Ahem, sorry for barging in. We just wanted to say Happy Birthday to Alhaitham. We'll visit again some other time when he's awake," Lumine cuts Paimon off, successfully managing to slap her hand against Paimon's mouth. She can feel the back of her ears turning red as she bows and practically sprints away and out of the house. She'll just write a note to the scribe instead.

You blink a few times before chuckling again. Wow, that girl sure can run fast. You've heard stories about the Traveller and this "Paimon" character, patiently waiting for your turn to stumble into their journey. Although you wish you had met them with better first impressions, they seem like a lively bunch. Your eyes slide over back onto the sleeping figure in front of you, and there's a slight nudge of his lips. The smallest of smiles threaten to burst before it placates into something more neutral. A small detail that hasn't escaped you.

"I know you're awake Alhaitham," you state blankly, your gentle hands reaching back up before suddenly turning harsh and tugging at his cheek. Pulling the skin so he has a lopsided smile. True to your words, teal and amber eyes open without an ounce of shame. "Weren't those your friends? Don't be rude and ignore them when they came all this way to say happy birthday."

He offers a half-hearted shrug before the hand supporting his head moves to take your fingers still tugging at his cheek. Intertwining them together until his face is free. His smile is still small but his eyes shine with fondness that you're forced to look away. Sometimes you forget just how pretty Alhaitham can be.

"Weren't you the one that said I should indulge on my special day? Is it so wrong that I want to spend it with you and you alone?" He adds to his point by brushing his lips against your fingertips before pressing a kiss to your palm. There's a small smile as he extends his other hand out, eyes taking in how pink your ears become. "So let's indulge."

“For such a pretty face, you sure are…” you trail off but you take his hand and let him move you onto his lap. It's unfair how fast he can turn the tables on you and how easily you let him do so. It was fun being able to poke and prod the man to your heart's content since he had to hold the disguise of being asleep, even if you do feel a bit bad that the Traveller had to postpone their greeting, but now it's his hands that roam over your body. Slipping under your - his - shirt and rubbing small circles into your hip before growing bored and moving onto another patch of untouched skin until there's nothing left to take. Lip hungry as he kisses away your words because every breath that isn't mixed with his is worthless. Perhaps it's a blessing that you need to take a proper breath because you're sure that Alhaitham would keep taking until there's nothing left. Disregarding how tightly your hands cling to him and refuse to let him stray too far away.

"Greedy."

"Pot meet kettle."

---

[taglist] <- if you want to be added, please read this first.

@genshins1mpact @creatorofstars @xoneaboveallx @timmyitsmeeee @raingoesboomboom @duhsies @thegayrubberducky @isa-solasun @afoxesgreed @yuuki4646 @angel-luv-04 @inlovewithwaffles @maddymints09 @moonssandstars @ieathairs @crypticbibliophile @cumbermovels @totallynotaraidensimp

Tags

genshin x reader alhaitham x reader

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ara-ara-bitch

2 years ago

👀😃😏

𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊? 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒!

— Childe, Diluc, Kaeya, Itto, Zhongli, Pantalone

cw. f!reader, size kink, riding, doggy, squirting, pet names, use of ‘daddy’ (pantalone), oral, mating press, full nelson, creampie, fingering, praise

𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐄

A moan slips from your lips when Tartaglia pushes his cock quickly against your sweet spot.

His balls slam slapping your swollen clit, your eyes roll as he grabs your hips angle them to reach deeper.

The grin on his face widens as you sob and bury your head in the pillow, “what’s the matter angel, is my cock too much for you?” he teases you wrapping a hand around your throat and pulling you with your back against his chest.

He sits back on his heels and squeezes your throat before wrapping his arm around your waist, slamming his hips against your ass, “will you cum for me mh?” he coos in your ear.

His hand slides down your side and reaches between your thighs, circling your sensitive clit.

You have to hold on to his thick arm to keep from falling forward as he pounds inside you. “I wan … I wanna cum … please,” you sob, moving toward his hips.

His rough fingers run expertly over your bud, your pussy fluttering around his shaft and your juices sliding over his balls. “You’re dripping, angel, go ahead, make a mess,” he grunts.

Your nails dig into his arm as you bounce, stifle a moan as you lift off his cock and gush cum everywhere.

Tartaglia licks his lips as you gush onto his cock and thighs, his fingers not leaving your clit forcing out more squirts that wet the sheets beneath you.

“That’s my girl,” he teases pulling you back against him and forcing his cock into your sloppy, soaked slit, “now, angel, give me one.”

Keep reading

Tags

genshin smut

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ara-ara-bitch

2 years ago

ꨄ︎ . ⋆ 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐘 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐑𝐎𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 !

— with kamisato ayato.

ABOUT: you get closer than you could have ever imagined to best friend's older brother.

CONTENT : sub fem reader, virginity loss, slight corruption, oral, praise, soft ayato.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

your best friend's big brother usually kept to himself whenever you were over. you knew about how he took care of ayaka after the loss of their parents, even funding her college degree with his own paycheck.

slowly, he began to take a liking to you. in comparison to the timid demeanour of his sister, ayato found your preppier disposition a welcome change of pace.

the man grew so fond of your presence that he'd allow you to stay with him while ayaka had a class to attend and you had a free morning. it began with simple coffee and cookies, yet turned into you spilling your deepest secrets to him — ayato became somebody you could confide in, almost like another best friend!

when you told him that you hadn't ever been with another man or hadn't even touched yourself in such a manner, he offered to show you how much fun you were missing out on. and of course you agreed, not really knowing any better. you trusted him, and it'd be a lie to say that you didn't find him extremely attractive.

ayato led you back to his room, a california king filling up the majority of the space. everything was pristine, royal blue shades complimenting what were otherwise rather monotone colours. the most notable feature was the floor to ceiling windows that gave you the perfect view of the city below.

ayato took his time with you. he let you get comfy against his silk pillowcases before kissing you softly, ensuring that you really were okay with what was about to happen.

his large hands pushed up your pretty skirt and he almost groaned at the mere sight of your cute panties. they were white, almost fitting considering that he would be the first to touch you so intimately, and decorated with an adorable little pink bow. ayato noticed the faint wet spot seeping through the material too.

it didn't take him long to discard your underwear. hell, he was already as stiff as ever just from seeing you like this. god, if only you knew that he'd sat on these same sheets and fucked his fist to the thought of your pretty cunt.

ayato began with butterfly kisses that trailed up your inner thigh, a smirk on his lips from how damn responsive you were to his touch. a peck to your pussy lips you left you making moves to squeeze your thighs together, yet the man placed a firm hand on either one and kept you spread out for him.

slowly, he flattened his tongue and licked a few thick stripes up your drooling cunt, experimenting as to what kind of touches and pressure you liked best. of course, every sensation was new to you, so ayato had to read your body language to the best of his ability.

your whimpers as he sucked on your clit were music to his ears, a symphony that he wished could be stuck in his head for all eternity. your hands gripped his baby blue locks, finger becoming entangled as you grew closer to your first orgasm

"ayato!" you cried out, tugging his head away from you. "p-please stop…"

immediately he pulled back, looking over you for any signs of visible discomfort: yet he found none. "what's wrong, princess?"

you looked down, not wanting to make eye contact with the man whose lips and chin glistened with your juices. "it felt weird…"

"oh, baby..." he cooed, licking his lips and pulling you in for a hug. "a good weird or a bad weird?"

you shrugged, honestly not having an answer.

"i think you were about to cum, love. it's okay, i promise. i've got you. do you want to stop?"

"no!" your response was instant. ayato wanted to tease you, yet bit his sharp tongue so as not to cause you and unnecessary discomfort. so far, he pegged you as somebody who would be much more receptive to praise anyways.

this time, ayato tried something different. instead of throwing you back in at the deep end, he suggested you removing the remainder of your clothing and let him see your pretty tits. and, my god, they were angelic. after playing with your hardened nipples for a moment or two and some reassurance that you wanted to continue, his fingers found their way into your cunt.

he began with a single digit, gently stretching your hole open. he didn't care about any blood that shed, his sheets were dark enough to conceal it. after all, he assumed that it would likely make you a little embarrassed. eventually, he added another and his soft fingers continued to tenderly scissor your wet hole open.

once ayato was content, he removed his own clothing. you couldn't help but gawk at the size of his hard cock, worried about how it was supposed to fit inside of you. the man only hushed you, reassuring you that he knew what he was doing and he'd take care of you. you squirmed as your cunt twitched around his tip, stretching to account for his sizeable girth.

one of his hands came to rest on your hip, tracing illegible shapes into your delicate skin. the other held your much smaller hand, comforting you with occassional swipes of his thumb across the back of your hand.

ayato held this position as he pushed deeper into your sticky cunt, praising you for taking him so fucking well. it felt like he was inhumanely deep inside of your stomach by the time that he was bottomed out. he admiring your wide, innocent eyes peering up at him before whispering: "i'm gonna fuck your pretty pussy, okay, darling?"

he received a few eager nods in response, and that caused a sweet smile to break out on his face. god, he felt so lucky. ayato guided your gaze towards him, carefully turning you to look at him. they eye contact made you clench around him, this new sensation overwhelming you."fuck," he breathed heavily, "you're perfect. i need to move, is that alright, love?"

you were already toeing the line of being so utterly dumb on his cock, drunk on the pleasure of your virgin cunt being used. pride filled ayato as he remembered that only he was fortunate enough to be privy to such an angelic sight.

ayato's words remained saccharine as he dragged his cock along your sloppy walls, thrusting his hips against your own. his deft thumb fiddled with your swollen clit to help ease any discomfort.

your eyes rolling back in your sockets as you grew close once again. you were too dizzy to realise you were about to cum, but he had a sneaking suspicion by the way that you tightened around him. tears graced your lashline as your high washed over you, leaving you all sloppy and messy for your best friend's brother.

ayato halted as you went limp against his pillows, stiff cock bouncing against his navel as he pulled out of you. he coddled you as you came down from such an intense orgasm, caressing your soft skin as you ultimately failed to keep your head from floating away into the clouds above.he continued to pump his own shaft, stroking his cock only a couple of times before he spilled milky rivulets across your lower tummy.

ayato kept his grip on your hand throughout all of it. your hold was tight enough that you wouldn't let him move away to go and grab a washcloth to clean you, instead insisting that he stay by your side for a moment longer. the man assumed that you were just processing things, and allowed himself to spend a few minutes watching over you. shortly you drifted to a state of dreams with ease, soft snores echoing off the walls.

ayato chuckled lightly to himself before making promises to keep you safe and make you feel at home around him, all of which proved to be true by the way you began sneaking into his room late at night every time you stayed over. you'd even visit just for a taste of his cock when ayaka wasn't present, sometimes kneeling under his desk as he worked. ayato felt proud with how addicted you were to him, his touch, his body.

who knew his little sister had such good taste in friends?

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ara-ara-bitch

2 years ago

i see that your bio says requests are open, but if there’s been a mistake and they’re not then feel free to decline this! it may be a little suggestive if you squint but i was thinking: how would xiao, thoma, and albedo react to you giving them a hickey? neck kisses are top tier so i always love headcanons like these, hehe! have a nice day

part two (scaramouche, kazuha)

authors note ⊱ requests are still definitely open!!! anyway u raise interesting thoughts............................................ sips my im-a-simp juice im not saying neck kisses / hickeys are my shit.......... BUT THEY’RE MY SHIT,,,

also maybe this shouldve been wholesome but why do that when u can write sin

(btw if anyone wants other characters for this feel free to send a request c: )

characters ⊱ xiao, thoma, albedo

warnings ⊱ completely safe! enjoy!

rating ⊱ not sfw, if ur a minor pls dni or ignore,,, im not responsible for ur actions

xiao

he definitely enjoys it, especially when your mouth catches right underneath his jaw, where he really likes it

the throat is a very vulnerable place, and that already makes it pretty intense, but couple that with the fact xiao requires a lot of trust and love to be able to let someone this close makes it a thousand times more overwhelming

he flushes up and becomes a shuddering, grinding mess, grunting through his teeth, trying to choke down the whines into something that sounded less pathetic, but they end up slipping out anyway

he might act like he’s had enough or that he wants you to get on with it, “are you done yet?” but if you actually did stop, he would greedily insist you keep going, because he loves it (even if he wouldn’t directly admit it)

enjoys the feeling of being marked, but doesn’t quite get it beyond that

he also doesn’t get embarrassed by it at all, he just gets annoyed if random people point it out; whatever he does in private is no one else’s business but his, and he thinks they should just ignore it (unless it’s someone he knows like zhongli or hu tao. then he’s extremely embarrassed, gritting a snarky response through his teeth)

still, he probably insists you give him more

when they fade away, he’s desperate to make sure you give him new ones; there’s something oddly gratifying about it that he doesn’t want to take the time to personally examine, he just wants it, wants you

however, he wants to return the favor as well; when you’re not ravaging his neck, he’s ravaging yours

albedo

loves it, it’s actually his favorite place to be kissed

it doesn’t matter if you just ghost your mouth across his skin, even the slightest touch will have his heart racing, his breath leaving him in short, shallow gasps—he’s sensitive

melts when you suck, lick, bite, any and all of it

either way, he’s immediately melting and whimpering, practically crumbling into your arms, tilting his head to the side to invite more and more and more of your attention

being marked there is definitely very much welcomed

doesn’t care too much if people see it, but he wears high-collared jackets pretty normally anyway; i also see him as a frequent enjoyer of turtlenecks

even if someone points it out, he isn’t really embarrassed because they see it, but rather because it reminds him of how he recieved it (he brushes his fingers over the mark, cheeks warming; he shivers at his own touch, but it can’t quite mimic the way you made him feel)

loves, loves those open mouthed, sort of wet kisses you leave across a neck, it drives him a little crazy (especially where the star is on his throat)

gets heated and heavy-lidded very fast; he might try to ride your thigh if this keeps up

thoma

ironically, this is also his favorite place to be kissed

loves being kissed there, but he prefers it to be very gentle; he likes it to be slow, sensual kisses, the kind that make him sigh, eyes fluttering closed, with his head naturally falling back to invite more of your touch

the problem is actually getting marked

he doesn’t mind it, normally, but as someone with a reputation to keep, it can be a struggle to keep hidden

especially since his throat is pretty exposed most of the time, anyway

so he’ll probably tell you to not leave any bruises, but the rest of his body is more than welcome to you

even when he doesn’t have to worry about someone seeing him with the marks, he has a hard time fully enjoying it given he will just always have this habitual anxiety about his reputation

but if you know just how to make those soft, fleeting marks that fade not too long after, you are more than welcome to lather him with it

loves being kissed there, but besides the reputation conflict, he’s pretty neutral to markings

if you like it, then he’ll like it

but if anyone points it out, like ayaka, he’s going to be more than embarrassed, he’s going to be a stammering mess

would prefer to just be kissed or nipped on his throat instead of marked

Tags

genshin x reader

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