#and then don’t delete without accountability

[soluversworld]

About that one post

In the tags of TKATB post, I saw a post and before things go too far, I would like to address about it.

post https://www.tumblr.com/tenderlyfracturedscheme/787382689005240320/exposing-a-racist-and-predator-artist-in-tkatb?source=share

Before anything else, please note: The person being discussed is an artist in the (TKATB) fandom who goes by the username kazueisaloser. (Please make sure to read the Twitter post in question first—but also be aware that the post is entirely fake and misleading.)

In short, the person behind the post is accusing Kazue of racism and other serious STUFF. I want to clarify that, based on my personal interactions with Kazue, these claims are false. From what I’ve seen, Kazue has always come across as a kind, funny, and respectful person.

To be direct: the screenshots being circulated are fabricated/faked. This appears to be a group of minors attempting to “cancel” Kazue simply because she reminded them that they shouldn't be engaging with 18+ content or spaces.

This is well informed in X/twitter than here. So I'll link the people who spoke about it This post is just making people aware about the post before People go crazy.

1.

IVE 🎀 on X: "I don’t usually address things like this publicly, but for the sake of clarity — we have confirmation of her actual Discord account. This impersonation is false. Please stop spreading misinformation." / X

2.

Lalaluna on X: "We have plenty of evidence of you people making channels just to hate on Kazue, even if you’ve already deleted the server. It’s clearly one of you staging it because why is the conversation at the start different? And fyi Kazue’s actual discord has a toilet pfp frame btw. https://t.co/nvroF2SH94" / X

3.

emi🩶 semi-hiatus! on X: "Kazue NEVER behaves like this. We are friends with her in discord and all her socials are linked in her profile. I hope you know this is literally a cybercrime because this is already too much." / X

4.

Lalaluna on X: "Please explain how she’s the horrible one when you are saying all this about her including wishing physical harm and death upon her and now impersonating her too. All because she rightfully scolded a minor for being in a 18+ space. https://t.co/sKQq95AVGp" / X

Kazue responded to these allegations too. With evidence.

1.

Miss KAZUE! on X: "I refuse to take this poor impersonation attempt lightly. The first ss shows the fake account falsely claiming to be me, even copying my Tiktok profile description. The second ss displays my actual discord acc. I'll also show further evidence of this situation. (1/5) https://t.co/9ML0zjZbne" / X

More posts might come, exposing them as the time of posting this.

Please, for the love of god—don’t jump to conclusions based on so-called “evidence” without knowing the full context.

This is social media. Things can be faked. Screenshots can be edited. Narratives can be twisted. What looks like proof isn’t always the truth.

But the truth does come to light—eventually. So before you choose sides or spread accusations, take a step back. Ask questions. Look deeper.

Because once someone’s reputation is ruined, you don’t get to undo that damage just because you didn’t wait for the full story.

Let’s be clear: minors should not be in 18+ communities. Those spaces are labeled that way for a reason—because the content, discussions, and themes are not appropriate or safe for underage individuals.

And now, instead of respecting those boundaries, some of these same minors are creating fake screenshots and trying to cancel an someone—all because she gave a reasonable and necessary warning about staying out of adult spaces.

That is not okay. Minors are still responsible for their actions. Falsely accusing someone and faking evidence is serious, harmful behavior—no matter your age. Being young is not a free pass to lie or ruin someone's reputation.

[sick-plague-rat]

Its one of lilithdeathbed or smth recent post!!! (btw just to warn you she referred to you by female pronouns in the post, if i'm not mistaken don't you use he/it???) though but from what i remember the post was accusing you of stealing her gifs??? (。﹏。*) I'm so confused...

As the time i was writing this, i checked back in the post and she crossed out the words and congratulated her fans for getting you to take down the post??? rq gonna copy paste it

"hi everyone, someone is using my gifs without my permission, please report her

--> @sick-plague-rat

repost to make more people report her

EDIT: i think she deleted the post so good job, thank you for help! love u 🩷"

I checked the comments of the post and i'll jst copy paste it here:

Commenter: "Diva where i don’t see it?/lh /gen. Ill still report tho!"

Lilithdeathbed: "another user told me in a comment some hours ago, maybe she removed the post but i don't know because she blocked me😭. whatever thank you for the help 🥹"

I think there was a miscommunication with her source of info??? I hope you don't get your account taken down bc of this!!! (⊙﹏⊙∥)

NOOOO WHATWHSTAAHAH ?!?!?!? THERE WAS MISCOMMUNICATIONN, I WANTED TO DRAW!!! DRRAWW A GIFFF FORRRRRRR FORRR HERRRRR !!!!!!!

I DIDNT WANT TO STEAL ANYTHING, OH NOOOO, IM SO SORRY I MUST HAVE WORDEDE IT WEIRD

i thought she was upset that i wanted to draw it and got embarrassed so i blocked her (im gna unblock her now, to clear things up)

BUT OH NOOO, I DIDNT WANT TO TAKE HER DESIGN, I JS WANTED TO MAKE FANART/FANART GIF, WAHHH I SHOULD HAVE CLEARED IT UP MORE

@lilithdeathbed IM SOOSOSOSO SORRY FOR THE MISCOMMUNICATION !!!!

i didnt make any post about ittt, uhhuuuh sosoo sdcbfevjwndkm im sososo sorry >.<

[bixels]

“America has no culture” is an inherently racist statement. Especially when talking about California, which has enormous populations (yes, plural) of Hispanic and Asian immigrants.

It’s such a self report that you see the American hegemony, the American monolith, as a singularly white entity that’s worthy of scorn. I want that person to look at the Black American NYC Miku design and tell me with their full chest that that isn’t culture. Especially when modern pop culture owes so much to Black American culture — hip hop, language, streetwear and fashion, pop music, jazz — as is actively erasing their roots, saying all of America has no culture is a dumbass statement.

Also, “all the US Mikus are dressed in generic casual street style for coolish weather.” The original Brazilian Miku is wearing sunglasses, a crop top, short shorts, a bikini, and flip flops you absolute dunce. If you’re gonna be rude at least be consistent.

[milimeters-morales]

idk man this spoutible site doesn’t seem trustworthy

[chaosnojutsu]

.

[grey-yyeepy]

i finally got to play guitar in music!!

[teaboot]

Me: Okay, Outlook email on desktop. Time to change password

Outlook: Okie dokie! :D Sending you a confirmation number to your mobile app. :)

Me: Awesome, thanks

Me: Hmm, it’s not showing up in my app.

Outlook: That’s okay! You can click “I don’t have access to my app right now” :)

Me: Oh, okay, thanks!

Me: *click*

Outlook: Okay, so it looks like you don’t have access to the app right now! Would you like to confirm through the app instead? Or would you like me to send you a confirmation code?

Me: I just said I don’t- yeah, okay, sure. Send me a confirmation code.

Outlook: Okie-dokie! Sending you a confirmation code. It should show up soon in your app :)

Me: Okay so I just said I can’t access the app though

Outlook: Oh, that’s okay! :D Just click “confirm another way” :)

Me: ….okay

Me: *click*

Outlook: Awesome! So it looks like you don’t want to confirm using the app right now. Would you like to confirm by entering a number into your app, or would you like a confirmation code sent to your app?

Outlook: :)

Me:

Me: You know what. I’m just going to change my password on the app.

Outlook: Okay! :D

Me (on the mobile app): Okay so I’d like to change my password

Outlook (app version): Okay! :D Just sending a code to your app so you can confirm :)

Me: Okay but I’m already on the app.

Outlook: That’s okay! :D Just click “I DON’T have access to my app right now” :)

Me: I’m on the app. I’m literally- okay.

Me: *click*

Outlook: Cool! :D So you’ll need to enter this number into your app

Me: I’m not receiving these numbers on my app. None of these are showing up in my app. They aren’t showing up in my junk folder, they aren’t getting blocked, I’m just straight up not receiving them. How do I change my password WITHOUT USING THE APP TO CONFIRM

Outlook: Oh that’s easy-peasy! :D Just turn off two-factor authentication in your settings :)

Me: Okay

Outlook: :)

Me: *Turns off authentication*

Outlook: Awesome! :D Looks like you’ve turned off two-factor authentication :)

Me: ….yeah

Outlook: :)

Me:

Outlook: :)

Me:

Outlook: :)

Outlook: So if you just want to confirm that choice by entering this code into your app-

Me: OH MY GOD

Me: *deletes app, turns off phone*

Me (back on desktop): So I’d like to change my password

Outlook: Awesome! :D So if you just enter this number into your app-

Me: I cannot access the app

Outlook: Awesome! :D So if you’d prefer, we can send a code to your app-

Me: I cannot access the app

Outlook: Awesome! :D So if you can just enter this code from your app-

Me: I cannot access the app

Outlook: Oopsie-doopsie! :D Looks like there’s been a wee little whoopsie-daisy-doodle-doo verifying your account :) Now if you could just open your app-

Me: Ohhhhhhh my god

Outlook: Or download our authentication app

Me: Okay

Me: (downloads app)

Authentication app: Hi! :D

Me: Hi. I’d like to verify my desktop account.

Authentication app: Okie-dokie! :D Just log in with your email and password :)

Me: …Okay

Authentication app: Looks good to me! :D

Me: …….okay

Authentication app: :)

Me:

Authentication app: :) So what can I help you with?

Me:

Me: ….I would like. To verify my desktop account.

Authentication app: Okie-dokie! Just-

Me: I cannot access my app

Authentication app: That’s okay! :D

Me: ….okay

Authentication app: Yeah that’s what I’m here for :)

Me: okay

Authentication app: :)

Me:

Me: ….so how do I-

Authentication app: Just enter this number we sent to your authentication app-

Me: YOU ARE THE AUTHENTICATION APP

Me: YOU ARE SHOWING ME NOTHING

Authentication app: OH

Me: YEAH

Authentication app: Hmm yeah okay I see the problem

Me: DO YOU

Me: DO TOU REALLY

Authentication app: Yeah you need to confirm your account somewhere else to access me :)

Me: NO SHIT

Authentication app: Hey :( I’m only trying to help :(

Me: You’re right. Okay. I’m sorry.

Authentication app: It’s okay :)

Me: So where else can I confirm my account.

Authentication app: Oh that’s easy-peasy! :D Just open your mobile app and

Me: (slams my face directly into my desktop computer, crushing my skull and the motherboard at the exact same time and torpedoing us both directly to hell)

[heeluvv]

˗ˏˋ 01. NEW CONTENT DROPPED

warningsᝰ.ᐟ masturbation, unprotected sex, soft praise kink, noona kink, light crying, degradation kink, etc.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

statusᝰ.ᐟ 1/9 completed!

taglistᝰ.ᐟ @starry-eyed-bimbo @vixialuvs @justaquarium @dark-moon-light02 @deobitifull @minjeong28 @wonzzziezzzz @wonsohl @psychicyouthfox @honeyfever @strayy-kidz @bloomiize @tunafishyfishylike @jaehaki @ihearteatingxo @songbyeonkim @sol3chu @mo0neng3ne @strxwbloody @hii01mii @merwdusa @dorrissakurada @lycxee @frequentlykit @heeenha6484 @sjakewrld @stwrlightt @parkjjongswifey @haneulhee @fr34k4c1dr41n @cozyre @vwricky @nyxtwixx @nuggets4lifers @yunkiconico @mynameis-rosie1 @leeknowslefteyebrow @babygguk98 @noiiny @horijiro

──

you don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until the number on the page blurs in front of your eyes. the red ink bleeds through the letter like it’s been branded there on purpose, like it’s taunting you. bold, underlined, and cruel: payment past due. the amount is higher than you thought. higher than last month. higher than what’s sitting in your checking account—and your savings? nonexistent. your fingers twitch around the edges of the paper, and you stare at it for a few seconds longer, as if maybe if you look hard enough, the numbers will shrink, change, disappear entirely.

but they don’t.

your hands move slowly, almost disconnected, as you place the letter down on the edge of the kitchen counter. the paper crinkles beneath your fingertips, the sound sharp in the quiet of the apartment. you rake your fingers through your hair, dragging your nails gently across your scalp, trying to ground yourself—trying not to panic. it’s not working.

you don’t have time for this. not now. not with finals looming, two shifts left this weekend, and rent due in five days.

the sound of approaching footsteps makes you flinch.

“everything okay?” nari’s voice is soft, cautious, like she already knows the answer. she probably does. she always does.

you don’t look at her. not yet. you feel her presence behind you, hovering by the counter, hesitating. she picks up the letter carefully, and you hear her breath catch as her eyes scan the contents. there’s a beat of silence before she speaks.

“it’s more than last month,” she says, barely above a whisper.

you nod, still not meeting her eyes. your throat feels dry, your heart pounding behind your ribs like it’s trying to escape. the shame tastes bitter in your mouth.

“i can’t pay it,” you finally say, voice flat. “i barely made it through last month’s bill. and now they’ve added more fees.”

it’s not new. this has been happening every few months. random charges. late penalties. service increases you never agreed to. and no matter how many hours you work or how much sleep you lose, it never seems to be enough. you thought you were managing. thought maybe you were finally getting ahead, even just a little. but here it is—proof that you’re still drowning.

nari places the letter back down and moves to stand beside you. she doesn’t speak right away. her eyes flick toward you, soft with concern. she’s been your roommate for over a year now—someone you met through a shared thread on social media venting about overpriced meal plans and the bullshit cost of dorm laundry. back then, you were both strangers trying to navigate the mess of college life with nothing but broken bank accounts and coffee-stained syllabi.

now, she feels like family.

you’ve always admired how gentle she is, how thoughtful. she worries without smothering, helps without asking, gives even when she barely has enough for herself. you hate how easily she sees through you.

“i’m so sorry, y/n,” she says gently. “let me help. i mean it. just this once.”

you squeeze your eyes shut. you’ve had this conversation before. more than once. every time the bills show up with too many zeroes or your bank app sends another low balance alert, she offers. she always offers. and you always refuse.

because this is your responsibility. your education. your choice.

you never wanted to drag her into the mess you made just trying to survive.

“nari, no. it’s fine,” you say, brushing it off the same way you always do, even though nothing about this feels fine. “i’ll figure it out. i’ll… find another job or something.”

another job. the words sound ridiculous even as they leave your mouth. you’re already balancing two. your body aches at the thought of adding a third, your schedule stretched so thin it feels like one missed alarm could unravel everything.

nari doesn’t argue. she just stands there, looking at you with wide, worried eyes that say more than her words ever could.

you turn away.

you don’t want to see that look. don’t want to see the guilt in her expression or the way her lips part like she’s about to say something she knows you won’t let her finish. instead, you press your palms flat to the cool countertop and try to slow your breathing.

you can’t keep doing this. living check to check. sacrificing sleep, time, your sanity—only to still come up short.

“let me help find you one, y/n. at least let me do that…” her voice was quiet but firm, laced with the kind of gentle urgency that made it hard to ignore. she pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down beside you, her knees bumping yours softly as she reached for your hands.

her fingers curled around yours without hesitation—warm, grounding, comforting in a way that made your chest ache.

“you’ll get out of this before you know it,” she said, her thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “just hang on a little longer.”

the words should’ve felt like encouragement. to someone else, maybe they would have. but to you, they barely registered. her voice echoed distantly in your ears, dulled by the weight pressing down on your shoulders. you wanted to believe her. you really did. but there was only so much hope could do when your brain felt like it was unraveling thread by thread.

you were tired.

not just physically—though that part never seemed to go away—but mentally, emotionally, in a way that left you hollow at the edges. your thoughts were messy. loud. overwhelmed with numbers and due dates and rejection emails you didn’t have the energy to open.

you’d always wanted more for yourself. a degree. a real future. stability. success. the version of adulthood that didn’t involve counting coins at the bottom of your purse to buy groceries. being able to chase something you loved without sacrificing everything just to survive.

and yet… here you were. still stuck. still drowning.

“i’ll talk to my friends,” nari added, her voice picking up as she stood again. “i’ll ask around, see if any of their jobs are hiring. you don’t have to do this alone, okay?”

you blinked up at her, too tired to protest, too drained to offer anything back. you barely nodded.

she didn’t wait for an answer. instead, she gently tugged you to your feet and led you toward your room, her hands guiding you like muscle memory.

“just hurry,” she said over her shoulder, already halfway down the hall. “get ready before you’re late.”

you let the door close behind you, the soft click echoing in the quiet space, and leaned back against it for a second too long—breathing in slow, like maybe it would help ease the burning behind your eyes.

but it didn’t.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

you can’t hear yourself think anymore. the noise presses in from every direction—muffled conversation, the beep of the register, shoes skidding across tile, the mechanical whirring of the blender as it screams through another drink. the scent of syrup, espresso, and sweat mixes into something you’re far too familiar with by now. it clings to your clothes, seeps into your hair, follows you home every night and lingers even after you’ve scrubbed your skin raw.

your apron feels too tight around your waist. the name tag keeps flipping over, catching on your shirt. your hands ache from repetition. your back stings from bending, twisting, reaching for things without stopping. your legs burn, but you keep standing. because if you stop—just for a second—you don’t know if you’ll start again.

you’ve lost count of how many customers you’ve helped. they blur together—faces that don’t really look at you, names that repeat too often, voices that never say please. someone spilled a drink ten minutes ago and just stared at you like it was your fault. someone else snapped when you misunderstood their order and then smiled like it never happened. you’re used to it. too used to it.

the blender screams again, and you find yourself zoning out, eyes on the flashing light of the machine, ears ringing. you place a sweaty cup down on the counter just as your coworker brushes past you, muttering something, her voice barely registers.

“we’re out of cold brew, can you let the manager know?” she says, breathless.

you nod without thinking and duck into the back, weaving past crates of milk and mop buckets that haven’t been moved since your last shift. you find her—your manager—hovering near the inventory shelf, tablet in hand, expression unreadable. she looks up when she hears you but doesn’t say anything. just waits.

“we’re out of cold brew again,” you say softly.

her sigh is immediate. clipped. already annoyed. “i told the morning crew to prep more.”

“they didn’t,” you reply, just as soft.

she exhales again and gives you a glance that feels like a warning. “make a new batch. and try to keep the line moving—we’re backed up out there.”

you hesitate, shifting your weight from foot to foot, unsure if now’s a good time. but you don’t have a choice. not really.

“hey,” you begin, voice lighter than you feel, “i was wondering… if you had any extra shifts next week? i could take one. or two. anything that opens up, i’ll take it.”

you see it the moment her expression changes. not enough to be obvious, but enough that you feel it in your gut. she blinks at you once, slow. “you already have four shifts on the schedule.”

“i know,” you say quickly. “i just… if anyone drops or calls out—”

“i’ll let you know if something comes up,” she interrupts, sharper now. “but we’re fully staffed right now. you’re already lucky to have the hours you do.”

lucky.

that one stings.

you nod like it doesn’t bother you. “okay. thanks anyway.”

you turn back toward the front before she can see the heat crawl up your neck. the shame, the frustration, the quiet burn of helplessness that never seems to leave you alone. it coils tight in your chest as you slide back behind the counter, the overwhelming noise greeting you like a wave to the face.

you move through the orders on autopilot—pour, cap, swipe, pass. your body knows the motions. it always does. even when your brain doesn’t catch up. your arms are heavy. your thoughts are too loud.

your phone buzzes in your apron pocket.

technically, you’re not supposed to check it during a shift. but you do anyway, slipping your hand inside just enough to pull it out, eyes flicking to the screen beneath the counter.

nari: i have something to tell you.

you pause.

your breath catches in your throat.

the message is short. way too short. there are no emojis, no dramatics, no little additions she usually throws in to make you laugh. it’s clean. intentional. unsettling.

you type back fast.

you okay? what’s up?

your fingers hover over the screen, waiting. no immediate reply. no typing bubbles. just silence.

you slip your phone back into your apron, heart racing now—not from caffeine or exhaustion but from something else. dread, maybe. anxiety. it curls low in your stomach and spreads like smoke, slow and sickly.

the hours bleed together until they don’t feel real anymore. it’s like you blinked and suddenly the sky was dark, the register was silent, and your shift was over. you don’t even remember clocking out. your body moves on instinct as you grab your things, slinging your bag over one shoulder, feet dragging slightly with every step. you’re too tired to even complain out loud. exhaustion sits heavy on your shoulders, weighing down every bone like bricks. every joint aches. your eyes sting from the fluorescent lights. your muscles are tight, sore, stretched too far. and the worst part is knowing you’ll have to do it all again tomorrow.

the walk home is a blur. you barely register the passing cars or the hum of traffic. your legs are on autopilot, your thoughts too noisy to settle into anything coherent. by the time you reach your building, your fingers fumble with the key from how badly they’re shaking—whether from fatigue or stress, you’re not sure.

the moment the front door swings open, you’re greeted by a sudden, high-pitched sound that makes you flinch.

“oh my god, y/n!”

nari’s voice rings out before you even step fully inside. she appears from around the corner, practically bouncing on her feet as she rushes toward you with wide eyes and a wild grin.

“i think i’ve secured something for you!” she announces proudly, reaching to help you with your things without waiting for permission. your bag slides off your shoulder with her help, and she carefully sets it down on the couch before turning to face you again.

you blink at her, too tired to match her energy, voice low and worn. “how so?”

the contrast between your tone and hers is stark—hers bright and excited, yours soft, raspy, touched with exhaustion that even you can hear.

“okay, so,” she starts, already walking toward the kitchen like she’s been waiting all day to spill this. “i was talking to one of my classmates earlier—casual stuff, whatever—and she would not shut up about this app she’s using and this guy she’s obsessed with on it.”

you follow her slowly, the smell of something warm and savory pulling you forward. dinner is already set out, steam curling up from the bowls on the counter. she’s cooked again. you don’t even have the energy to thank her properly, but it sits in your chest like a quiet comfort.

“she said it’s this platform where you can post content—videos, mostly—and people follow you, tip you, subscribe to see more. apparently, it’s easy money if you know how to catch attention,” nari continues, grabbing utensils and placing them gently next to your bowl.

you lean against the counter, brows slightly furrowed as you try to keep up.

“what kind of videos?” you ask slowly.

and that’s when she pauses.

her hands still for a second, and you notice the subtle way her eyes flick to the side—toward the fridge, the floor, anywhere but you. she busies herself wiping down a clean countertop, her mouth tight, like she’s carefully choosing what not to say.

the silence stretches just a little too long.

you narrow your eyes. “nari?”

she still doesn’t look at you, her fingers now fiddling with the corner of a napkin that doesn’t need adjusting.

and that’s when you know—whatever she’s about to suggest, it’s not exactly a regular part-time job.

you don’t say anything. not at first.

you just watch her fidget—her hands smoothing the same wrinkle over and over again, her mouth parting like she wants to say something but can’t figure out where to start. her excitement from earlier has dimmed slightly, not completely gone, just… more careful now. the shift is subtle but it’s there, and you feel it tighten something in your chest.

your voice is quieter this time. gentler. “what kind of videos, nari?”

she glances up at you for a split second, then looks away again, reaching to stir a pot that isn’t even on the stove. she’s stalling.

finally, she exhales, turning back to you with both palms pressed to the counter.

“okay, so… don’t freak out.”

you stare at her.

“it’s… kind of a subscription thing,” she says, slow and cautious. “like, you post content—just whatever you’re comfortable with—and people tip you for it. sometimes a lot.”

you don’t speak. not yet. you just let her keep going.

“my classmate told me she made almost five hundred dollars in one weekend. literally just from one post. and this guy she follows? apparently he makes thousands. like, thousands. maybe even millions.”

your mouth is dry.

“what kind of content?” you repeat, even though you already know the answer.

nari bites her lip. her eyes finally meet yours. “sexy stuff,” she admits. “but it doesn’t have to be all out. it can be suggestive. artistic. faceless, even.”

you blink at her. once. twice.

the silence between you stretches until it’s not silence anymore—it’s tension. thick and heavy, sitting right in the center of the kitchen with both of you tiptoeing around it.

“it’s not as intense as it sounds,” she adds quickly. “she said she started small. built her page up over time. and no one from school found out. not even her roommates.”you sink into one of the kitchen chairs, your arms resting limply in your lap. you don’t say anything yet. you’re not even sure what you feel.

nari’s eyes soften as she watches you. “i know it sounds… out there. but i just thought—i don’t know, maybe it’s something you could look into. just to hold you over until things get better.”

you nod, but it’s slow. not agreement—just acknowledgment.

you’re too tired to argue. too drained to pretend the idea isn’t already crawling under your skin, planting itself somewhere dangerous.

because the truth is, you’ve heard of it. everyone has. whispered about in late-night dorm conversations, on private stories, in anonymous confessions posted on spam accounts. girls making rent money in a weekend. boys going viral for being faceless and filthy and addictive.

you never imagined doing it yourself.

but then again… you never imagined being this broke, either.

you stare at your untouched bowl of food, heart thudding softly in your chest.

you’re not disgusted. not even shocked.

you’re just… thinking.

and that scares you more than anything else.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

you tell yourself you’re just looking.

that’s it.

just a little more scrolling. just a few more profiles. you’re not doing anything. you haven’t made an account. you haven’t posted. you haven’t committed to anything except curiosity, and that—well, that’s harmless, right?

you open your laptop again. it’s sometime past midnight. your room is dim, the only light coming from your screen and the soft amber glow of the lamp tucked in the corner of your desk. it casts everything in that moody, late-night hue that makes the whole world feel quieter. heavier.

you pull your knees up to your chest, the blanket draped loosely over your shoulders as the homepage loads. it’s different now. you’re not looking aimlessly anymore. you know what to search for. you type top creators, and a list appears almost instantly.

you click one.

@heefreakshow. verified. 5.2 million subscribers.

his profile loads, and it’s exactly what you expect. polished, but not too polished. his display photo is somewhat dark and grainy, a half-lit frame of his bare chest, chin tilted up just enough to be teasing without giving anything away. the banner across the top reads: “i don’t just talk dirty. i make you feel it.”

his content is locked, but the previews aren’t.

you hover for a moment, your thumb pausing above one of the thumbnails before tapping it without thinking. the video opens in a small window, looped, muted at first, but it doesn’t matter—what pulls you in is the way he fills the frame. it starts with a soft hum of music, low and bassy, vibrating faintly through your speakers as the camera tilts upward from a dark-lit bed.

his chest appears first—broad, smooth, glowing faintly under the moody blue light. he’s shirtless, his skin flushed, breathing slow but deep. the camera dips, revealing his thighs spread wide and relaxed, and the hard, unmistakable bulge straining through his pants. your breath catches. the fabric looks tight—too tight—like it’s fighting to contain him. you can almost feel the pressure through the screen.

his hands trail over his torso, slow and lazy, fingers dragging along the curves of his stomach, tracing the line of muscle before resting on the waistband of his pants. his face isn’t fully visible—just the faintest shadow of his jaw, a teasing sliver of his bottom lip. the only thing clearly captured is his hair: pink, messy, soft-looking and slightly damp, like he’s just run his hands through it too many times.

and then he moves.

his fingers slip down, unbuttoning his pants with quick, practiced ease. the zipper lowers with a soft click, and he pushes the fabric down just enough for his cock to spring free, already hard, tip flushed and leaking as it rests against his abdomen. his breath stutters slightly, chest rising as he wraps his hand around himself, stroking slow—deliberate, like he’s savoring it. he tilts his hips toward the camera, giving you a better view, and you swear he’s looking straight at you even though you can’t see his eyes.

his voice comes in a beat later—low, raspy, thick with arousal.

“i couldn’t help myself, baby…”

you feel something warm twist in your stomach. the words feel too direct, too personal. his pace quickens as precum beads at the tip, slicking over his fingers as he groans, deep and breathy, like it’s pulled straight from his chest.

his other hand rises, trailing over his stomach until it reaches his chest, fingers pinching at one nipple as his hips twitch upward. the reaction is instant—a quiet moan spilling from his mouth as his head tilts back slightly, lips parted in pleasure.

“fuck…” he breathes out, barely audible between sharp inhales. “i want you here with me, baby…”

you freeze, the weight of the moment crawling down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

you scroll down to the next name on the list.

@jayafterhours. verified. 5.3 million subscribers.

his banner is simple—black background, sharp white font. his bio reads: “don’t waste my time unless you can take it.”

you don’t hesitate. you click.

the video loads instantly, and the difference between him and the last profile is immediate. there’s nothing soft about it. no slow lighting, no teasing buildup. it opens straight into a scene already mid-motion—loud moans echoing through your speakers, fast and desperate, though none of them are coming from him.

the camera is perfectly framed, clearly placed on a desk, angled to capture everything without obstruction. a woman lies flat on her front, arms outstretched as her fingers curl over the edge of the wood. her legs tremble slightly, back arched, skin damp with sweat. behind her, jay moves with sharp, brutal rhythm—his hands gripping her hips like he owns them, fingers pressing deep into the flesh as he drives into her hard enough to rock the table beneath them.

“such a fucking slut, aren’t you?” he grits out, his voice low and full of gravel, each syllable landing like a slap.

his hand comes down suddenly to grip her ass, squeezing tight before delivering a sharp slap that makes her body jolt. the sound of skin meeting skin cracks through the room. she lets out a choked moan, broken and messy.

“d-don’t stop—j-jay!” she cries, voice high, shaking as her nails drag along the desk surface for something to hold on to.

but you barely register her.

your eyes stay on him.

he doesn’t look at the camera—not directly—but the angle captures enough. his head is tilted back slightly, the veins in his neck prominent, his jaw clenched. his lips are caught between his teeth, biting down like he’s holding something back. there’s a faint flush along his collarbone, sweat trailing down the side of his throat.

he isn’t shirtless.

somehow, that makes it worse.

he’s dressed in a crisp white button-down, slightly wrinkled now, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. a black tie hangs loosely around his neck, the knot crooked like it was tugged halfway through the scene. it swings gently with the movement of his hips, adding to the rhythm, the sound, the image of him fully in control without even needing to try.

there’s something terrifyingly composed about him. like he’s done this a thousand times. like nothing surprises him anymore. like the entire scene is unfolding exactly how he planned it.

and yet, despite the chaos, the noise, the cries echoing off the walls—you can’t stop looking at him.

you don’t hesitate when your eyes land on the next name.

@jakeoncam. verified. 5.5 million subscribers.

simple bio: “i like being watched.”

your heart skips slightly as you click on the preview, already familiar with the routine by now. and yet, nothing about this feels repetitive—each creator you've looked at so far has had their own way of pulling you in, but jake’s feels… different.

the screen fades in slowly, no music, no buildup. just the soft creak of bedsheets and the low, wet sound of friction. he’s fully on display, his body stretched across a dark comforter, shirtless, skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat. the camera is placed at a low angle, perfectly capturing the curve of his back as he grinds down onto a pillow with messy, desperate rhythm.

his blonde hair sticks to his forehead in damp strands, a few pieces plastered to his cheek. his eyes are shut tight, brows drawn in deep concentration, lips parted as he pants softly into the mattress. his hips roll in tight, fluid motions, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he presses himself down harder into the cushion.

“fuck… i’m gonna cum… fuck, baby…”

his voice is breathless—higher, whinier than the others—and it hits you unexpectedly. it’s not performance. it sounds real. wrecked. like he’s been holding back for too long and is just now letting go.

he gasps softly, his pace stuttering, body tensing as the pressure builds—but the clip cuts off just before the release, leaving you blinking at your screen with your chest tight and your legs shifting.

you don’t realize how long you’ve been holding your breath until it escapes you all at once.

and you don’t stop there.

you move onto the next one almost instinctively, driven more by something primal now. not even out of curiosity anymore—need. something about each of them feels increasingly personal, like they’re not just performers, but something else. something closer.

@hoononrepeat. verified. 5.3 million subscribers. “if it’s not messy, i don’t want it.”

you click, the motion smooth and practiced now. part of you knows you’re getting too deep, that this is becoming more than just research, but you don’t stop.

his video starts mid-motion.

the frame is tight, focused completely on him—sunghoon’s hand gripping his cock, already soaked and shining with cum, sliding along the length with slow, deliberate strokes. his chest is heaving, his abs flexing with each movement. the lighting is dark, moody, barely enough to cast definition over his frame, and yet it still highlights every shift of muscle.

a silhouette appears at the bottom of the screen—a woman, faceless, mouth parted and positioned perfectly beneath him. her head bobs forward as he pushes his cock into her mouth without hesitation.

he groans, long and drawn out, his voice rough like it’s scraped from the bottom of his throat.

“fucking hell…”

his hand buries in her hair, fingers curling tight as he guides her down, hips jerking forward sharply. the wet sound of it echoes faintly, almost drowned out by his ragged breathing. she gags softly, hands pressing at his thighs, but he doesn’t let up.

he’s focused. lost. unrelenting.

“take it,” he mutters, jaw clenched. “take all of it, princess…”

the words hit hard. not because of what he says, but how he says it—low, commanding, almost personal. like he knows you’re watching. like the words aren’t meant for her at all.

you feel your pulse thud somewhere low in your stomach. your fingers curl tighter around the edge of your laptop.

you should stop.

but you don’t.

@watchmesunoo. verified. 5.4 million subscribers.

his page is simple—light pastel banner, soft text, almost misleading at first glance. but when the preview loads, there’s nothing soft about it. it starts mid-action, no intro, no setup—just raw, unfiltered need. his body fills the screen, the lighting harsh enough to highlight the tension in his muscles, the sweat slicking down his chest in messy trails.

his hand holds a small vibrator—slim, silver, and humming at a steady pace as he presses it along the length of his cock. it’s already hard, flushed dark and leaking, twitching visibly each time the buzzing toy runs over his slit. he slides it slowly, teasingly, from the base to the tip, circling it around the head before dragging it back down again. his hips jerk, his thighs tightening under the pressure.

his face is in view. fully.

his cheeks are red, tear-streaked, lips trembling with every breath. wet hair clings to his forehead in dark strands, and his eyes are glassy—shiny with desperation, the kind that makes your chest tighten just watching. he looks completely wrecked. beautiful in a way that shouldn’t feel this intimate, like you’ve caught him in something far too private.

“fuck… noona…” he whines, voice high and broken as his fingers curl tight around the bed sheets. “let me cum… please—noona…”

his hand trembles slightly as he lowers the vibrator, pressing it to the base of his cock as his other hand slides upward, two fingers dragging through the mess that’s already smeared across the head. he rubs the tip quickly, desperately, almost like he’s punishing himself for how close he is. his back arches sharply, the line of his throat exposed, jaw slack as more tears spill freely down his cheeks.

“f-fuckkk—i’m cumming!” he cries out, voice cracking as his body jerks violently, hips lifting off the mattress.

you can’t look away.

his cock twitches hard in his hand, and a thick wave of cum spills over his fingers, dripping down in messy strands that coat his palm and smear over his abdomen. his chest heaves. his thighs shake. he doesn’t stop moving until his hand is completely soaked and his voice has faded into soft, hiccuping breaths.

you’re still staring, eyes wide, mouth parted slightly. the screen is glowing in the dark of your room, and all you can do is sit there, frozen, pulse pounding behind your ribs as the clip loops quietly again.

@wonsodirty. verified. 5.2 million subscribers.

his profile surprises you even more.

the name alone already catches your eye—bold, a little cheeky, a little misleading. you expect something bratty, maybe cocky, something playful or reckless. but when the preview loads, it’s none of that.

it’s quiet. intimate.

the camera is placed at a low angle, steady, fixed on soft bedsheets that shift with every subtle movement. the lighting is warm and dim, the kind that wraps everything in a golden hue and makes skin look like silk. there’s a soft rustling in the background, the sound of him breathing, uneven and slightly hitched.

he comes into frame slowly—first his legs, then his thighs, spread slightly apart as he settles against the headboard. he’s not doing much at first. just breathing. just existing. but even that feels heavy with tension, like something just below the surface is about to break.

he’s shirtless. not in a performative way. just bare. his chest rises and falls in shallow motions, skin flushed with heat, the faintest sheen of sweat glinting under the soft light. his hand moves slowly at first, fingers wrapped tight around the base of his cock, stroking with careful precision. it’s already hard, already leaking at the tip, the kind of arousal that’s been building for far too long.

you watch as he closes his eyes, biting down on his bottom lip, his brows knitting together like he’s trying not to fall apart too quickly.

then, he whispers something—so soft you almost miss it.

“feels so good…”

his voice is high, sweet, breathy in the most fragile way. and it’s real. not loud. not dirty. just pure and cracked with something raw.

his strokes stay slow, almost too slow, like he’s punishing himself for how sensitive he is. his hips twitch every time he passes over the tip, precum smearing down the shaft and making his hand glisten as he continues.

you can’t help but watch his face—how red his ears are, how hard he’s trying to keep his composure. you notice how his legs tense, thighs flexing every time he lets out one of those quiet, needy sounds.

his strokes get faster, hips starting to lift slightly off the bed, his thighs trembling beneath him. he looks like he’s trying to hold back. like he’s afraid of what’ll happen if he lets go too soon.

“i can’t… i c-can’t hold it, please…”

he cries out as his hand jerks up once, twice, and then his entire body stutters. his back arches just slightly, his mouth dropping open in a silent gasp as ropes of cum spill over his fist, painting across his stomach in messy spurts.

his breathing turns shaky. his head tilts back against the pillow, eyes fluttering, lips parted as a tiny, breathless whimper escapes him.

the clip ends with his fingers still curled tightly around himself, his chest rising fast, his body twitching as he comes down—wrecked and glowing and silent.

you move onto the last profile.

@nikiuncensored. verified. 5.6 million subscribers.

the name alone already tells you everything you need to know. it feels reckless. raw. unapologetically bold in a way that makes your pulse skip without warning. you hesitate only for a second before clicking on the preview.

the video starts without ceremony—no soft intro, no teasing buildup. just action. the camera is low, placed somewhere near the base of the woman’s stomach. you can’t see her face, not even her chest—just the lower curve of her abdomen rising and falling with every sharp breath she takes. her thighs tremble faintly at the edges of the frame, knees slightly parted, twitching every time his mouth presses in.

but she’s the background.

your eyes go straight to him.

ni-ki comes into view slowly—his shoulders first, broad and tense, then his head, tipped slightly as his mouth lowers between her legs. his tongue flicks upward in tight, rhythmic strokes, wet and steady, circling over the clit with agonizing precision. the movement is deliberate. practiced. his lips part to suck softly, then flatten again as he switches pace, building her up in waves.

his fingers move with the same energy—two of them disappearing inside her only to pull out again, slick and glistening before they’re thrust back in with a soft squelch that echoes in the low hum of the room. the air is heavy. the lighting is dim, warm enough to cast shadows over the sharp line of his jaw, the flushed curve of his cheeks.

“fuck…” he breathes, voice strained with something between amusement and awe, “you’re so fucking wet…”

he groans as he presses in harder, his mouth practically consuming her now, lips wrapped fully around her clit as he sucks with loud, messy slurps. the sound is obscene, echoing in the quiet room—wet and desperate and hungry.

his eyes flutter shut, like he’s savoring the taste. like he could stay there all night and never come up for air. his free hand curls around the outside of her thigh, gripping tight, keeping her in place as his tongue works mercilessly. her moans are loud, cracked and high-pitched, but you barely register them. all you can hear is him—groaning, gasping, devouring.

he moves his head side to side slightly, mouth still latched to her clit, and the slurping sound becomes louder, wetter. his fingers curl up inside her and she screams, hips jerking toward his face, but he doesn’t back off. if anything, he doubles down.

he growls, low in his throat, sending vibrations straight into her core as his grip tightens.

and you’re stuck there—watching the way his mouth works, the way his muscles flex with every movement, the way he loses himself in it like it’s the only thing that matters.

the preview cuts off just as his lips part again, tongue dragging in a long, slow lick up her slit like he’s far from done.

and god—you believe it.

you’re completely breathless.

your chest rises and falls in slow, uneven waves, lungs struggling to catch up with the flood of emotions coursing through your system. your skin is warm, flushed, your fingers twitching faintly from where they rest on your thighs. everything inside you feels electric. overstimulated. wired with something you can’t quite name—but it’s there.

now, finally, you understand.

you understand why this app—the one you opened on a whim—could stir something so heavy inside you. why it’s been sitting in the back of your mind like a spark waiting for oxygen. it’s not just sex. it’s not just content. it’s control. attention. power.

you shift slightly where you sit, the damp heat between your thighs impossible to ignore. your panties are soaked, your breath shallow, and despite the way your body aches, you force yourself to sit up straighter. you push the thoughts down, shake your head, blink yourself back into focus.

you’ve battled with yourself long enough.

without giving yourself the space to overthink it, your finger moves. you press the button—create account—and watch the screen change, your heart racing with each small confirmation box that pops up in front of you.

you type quickly. no hesitation now. @babydollx0.

the name feels soft. flirty. safe.

but the next part isn’t so easy.

you hesitate when it asks for a profile photo. you scroll through your gallery—old pictures, half-deleted mirror selfies, nothing that feels right. nothing that says what you want it to say. nothing that matches the version of yourself you’re about to become.

you toss your phone onto the bed and push off the covers, the sheets falling away from your legs in soft folds as you rise to your feet. your room is still quiet, dimly lit by the lamp in the corner, casting soft golden shadows across your walls.

you move quickly.

your drawer slides open with a soft clatter as you dig through the scattered mess inside—tangled bras, folded shorts, tucked-away lace. your fingers pause when they find it: a tiny, black thong. the skimpiest one you own. barely fabric at all.

you strip out of your shirt first, letting it fall to the floor without a second thought. the cool air hits your bare chest, making your nipples pebble instantly. there’s no hesitation now. no shame. just movement.

you tug the thong on slowly, adjusting it at your hips, letting the waistband hug your curves as you step in front of the mirror.

you pose without overthinking it—back facing the mirror, head turned slightly over your shoulder, your front angled just enough to tease without revealing everything. the lighting does the rest. it casts your silhouette in soft shadows, highlighting the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the swell of your hips. everything else remains hidden—blurred in the low glow of the lamp.

it’s just enough to make someone want more.

you lift your phone, frame the shot, and for the first time in a long time…you feel powerful.

you set your phone carefully on the edge of your desk, adjusting the angle until it captures only what you want it to—the lower half of your body, your thighs parted slightly, your stomach rising with shallow breaths. your face is out of view. there’s no light beyond the soft glow of your desk lamp, and the shadows cast across your skin make everything look muted, quiet, secretive.

your thumb hovers over the record button, trembling slightly. you're not nervous because you don’t know what you’re doing. you’re nervous because you do.

your mind is cluttered with noise. doubt swims through you in thick waves, crashing hard against the edges of your resolve. your chest feels tight. you can feel the fear circling in your gut, whispering things like what if you regret it? what if someone finds out? what if you can't take it back?

but the fear isn't loud enough to drown out the truth.

you think of the letter on the counter, the rent due in less than a week, the account notifications warning you that your balance is low—too low. you think of the long shifts, the missed hours, the denial from your manager. you think about how you’re out of options.

and then you press the button.

the recording begins. the red icon glows faintly in the corner of your screen. it’s happening now. you’ve officially started.

your breath catches as your hands move instinctively, dragging down the curve of your stomach with a slow, deliberate rhythm. you let your fingers tease the hem of your thong, playing with the waistband, pulling it slightly before letting it snap back into place. you don’t say a word. there’s no script for this. you let the action speak for itself.

you shift in your seat, angling your body just enough for the camera to catch the soft curve of your ass, arching your back to deepen the shadow and leave the details to the imagination. it’s subtle. sensual. controlled.

then, after a pause that makes your heart pound harder, you bring your fingers to the front of your thong. with one smooth motion, you pull the fabric aside.

just enough to reveal yourself.

your folds glisten, slick already gathered between them from the buildup of watching, waiting, and wanting all night. you’d been trying to ignore it. trying to focus on the mechanics of the process. but your body never really forgot. not after what you’d seen. not after the way they sounded.

your fingers move without hesitation now, sliding between your folds and gathering the wetness. you exhale slowly, letting the feeling settle, letting the camera keep rolling. your touch is gentle at first—small, slow circles around your clit, nothing too fast. you don’t want to rush. you want it to look natural. sensual. you want it to feel good.

and it does.

your body shifts. your back arches slightly. your thighs tense. your fingers grow bolder, faster. not by much—just enough to feel it start to build. your breathing grows uneven. soft, audible. you hold back the sound in your throat, biting your lip hard enough to feel the pressure.

and then you think of them.

the teasing smirk from the one who never broke eye contact. the groans that scraped low and rough from behind clenched teeth. the soft, desperate whimpers that bled through clenched fists and sweat-slick sheets. the sharp snap of a hand against skin. the steady rhythm of fingers soaked to the knuckle.

you remember the flushed cheeks. the breathless pleas. the soaked mouth of someone who looked ruined just from giving. the thighs that trembled under the weight of restraint. the tongue that moved with unshakable precision, curling into someone’s heat like it was instinct—like it was art.

your fingers speed up.

your hips jerk slightly, your body reacting without permission. you tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as your clit pulses beneath your touch.

“fuck…”

the word leaves you in a low, broken whisper. it’s almost inaudible. almost too quiet to catch. but it’s there.

your chest rises with effort as you force yourself to stay quiet—to stay in control. nari is just a few feet away, asleep or scrolling in the room next door. you can’t let her hear. you can’t risk that. so you press your lips together tightly and breathe through your nose, letting your hand do the talking.

your fingers move in tighter circles. your stomach contracts. your legs pull in slightly as the pleasure curls deeper inside you, hot and electric. you don’t stop. you can’t stop. not now.

you don’t need to speak. the way your body moves is enough.

the video keeps recording, and for a second, everything else disappears—your exhaustion, your guilt, your fear. all of it fades into the rhythm of your own breathing, the slick sound of your fingers working between your thighs, and the realization that this isn’t just a performance.

it’s power.

and for the first time in a long time… it’s yours.

your fingers work faster now, soaked and steady, slipping in and out of your cunt with a rhythm that’s grown almost frantic. the sound of it—slick, wet, obscene—echoes low in the quiet room, barely masked by the rapid stutter of your breath. your body moves with instinct, hips rising to meet your hand, legs spread wide as you chase the heat that’s been coiling deep in your core since the moment the video started.

you start with two fingers, curling them up just right to press against the spot that makes your stomach tighten. your lips press into a thin, trembling line as you try to keep quiet, forcing yourself to muffle the moans that threaten to spill out with every thrust. your walls clench tightly around your fingers, greedy, hot, desperate for more.

and you give it to yourself.

you let out a ragged breath as you push in a third finger, the stretch making your thighs tremble. the pressure is overwhelming now—blinding, almost painful in the best possible way. you shift in your chair, back arching as you press your heels into the floor, legs falling open wider to give yourself more space. your body is flushed and burning, skin damp with sweat, nipples tight from the brush of cool air and lingering adrenaline.

your chest heaves as you move faster, harder, fingers curling deep into yourself as the pleasure builds fast and sharp like a scream stuck in your throat. your head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut, and for a split second, you forget about the camera. you forget about the fear. you forget about everything but the feeling—

“fuck… oh my god…”

the words tear from your throat, broken and low, muffled by the force of your own clenched jaw. your legs start to shake, your body twitching with the effort to stay upright as your orgasm rushes up and crashes through you.

“fuckkk—i’m gonna cum… shit…”

your voice is higher now, cracked at the edges, as your hips jerk forward and your muscles seize. the pressure bursts all at once, your cunt clenching around your fingers as you gush hard, soaking your hand and the inside of your thighs. the release is hot, messy, completely overwhelming—wave after wave rolling through your body until you’re panting, twitching, slumped over the desk with your mouth open in a silent gasp.

your other hand scrambles toward your phone, shaking as you fumble to tap the screen. the camera is still recording—still capturing every shudder, every twitch, the flushed glow of your skin and the shine slicked over your thighs.

you end the video with one shaky movement, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath.

your hand is drenched. your skin is burning. your thoughts are scrambled.

and you don’t hesitate.

you upload it raw, unfiltered, untouched.

you don’t trim the edges. you don’t add a caption. you don’t even blink before pressing the button.

you want it to speak for itself.

you want them to wonder.

you watch the screen as the upload bar slowly completes, your profile still blank, still new, still waiting to be discovered.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

the soft chirp of birds cuts through the stillness of morning, gentle and rhythmic, floating in through the cracks of your half-open window. golden sunlight pours across your sheets, casting long shadows along your floor, warm and soft against your bare legs. your body is sprawled out lazily across the mattress, limbs tangled in the fabric as your eyes flutter open slowly, blinking away the blur of sleep.

your room is quiet except for the persistent buzz of your phone vibrating on the nightstand beside you. it hums every few seconds, faint but constant, like it's trying to get your attention. you glance at it, brows furrowing slightly, but you don’t reach for it. not yet. your body still feels heavy with sleep and something else—something deeper.

you push the covers off your legs, the cotton sheets rustling as you sit up and stretch, your spine arching with a soft crack. you move slowly, stepping onto the cool floorboards and making your way toward the bathroom, your legs stiff, your joints still waking up with you.

just as you reach the door, nari’s voice floats out from the hallway, warm and familiar.

“good morning, girl,” she calls casually, emerging from her room with a yawn, her hair tied up messily and hoodie falling off one shoulder. she looks at you for barely a second before launching into what’s clearly been sitting on her mind.

“so,” she says, tone direct, “are you planning on making an account?”

you pause.

the words land heavier than you expect, and for a second, the hallway feels too quiet—like her question has taken up all the space. the thought hadn’t left your mind, not really. it was still there, tucked into the corner of your chest like something that needed to be dealt with eventually. she had brought it up before. multiple times. her voice always hopeful. her offers always kind. and you always deflected.

your throat tightens. not painfully—but just enough to make you hesitate.

you turn to look at her, your expression unreadable. the memory of last night creeps back in, vivid and electric. the video. your fingers. the way your breath had caught in your throat when you hit upload. the warmth that still lingered between your thighs. the weight of what it meant.

“i’ll look into it,” you say, voice hoarse. “but i don’t know, nari… does it really even work?”

she crosses her arms gently, leaning her shoulder against the wall. her gaze softens as she watches you.

“i can’t really speak from experience,” she says slowly, “but from what i’ve heard… it’s definitely something you should consider. especially with how much you’ve been struggling. i know it’s not what you’re used to. i know it’s different. but y/n… it’s real money. quick money. and you wouldn’t have to break your back for it.”

her voice stays gentle, but her words hit hard. your shoulders drop slightly, and her eyes flick down to your expression, reading you the way only she can.

“just think about it, okay?” she continues, her tone still light. “i’m heading out in a bit, but whatever you decide, just let me know. i can look around for other stuff too, if you don’t want to go that route.”

your chest tightens again—this time from emotion.

you don’t say anything. you just step forward and wrap your arms around her, pulling her in tight. the words rise up in your throat before you can stop them.

“thank you so much, nari,” you whisper. “what the fuck would i have done without you…”

your voice cracks on the last word. you bury your face in her shoulder and hold her a little tighter, your body warm against hers.

you don’t thank her enough.

not for the rent reminders. not for the quiet way she pretends not to notice when you come home late and fall asleep in your work clothes. not for the soft leftovers she always leaves out with a sticky note. not for the way she never once judged you when you admitted you were coming up short again.

she just showed up. over and over.

and you couldn’t be more grateful.

“i’ll always be here for you, y/n,” she murmurs, her arms wrapping tighter around your waist.

when you finally pull back, there’s a single tear running down your cheek. you wipe it away quickly, hoping she doesn’t notice—but she does. she always does. she doesn’t say anything this time, just gives you a gentle look before stepping away.

you clear your throat, trying to shake the emotion from your voice.

“you can go ahead,” you tell her softly. “i… i just have something to check really quick.”

she nods, disappearing into her room.

you stand there for a moment, your feet unmoving, the silence returning like a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. you exhale through your nose and turn around slowly, walking back into your room and closing the door behind you.

your phone is still buzzing on the nightstand.

and you’re finally ready to see what it has to say.

you close the door behind you and pause for a moment, letting your fingers linger against the wood. your room is quiet again, but it’s not the same kind of quiet as before. it’s weighted now—thicker, charged with something unspoken. your steps back to the bed feel heavier than they should. your body isn’t sore in the traditional sense, but there’s something beneath your skin that hasn’t left you since last night. like your muscles remember what you did. like your skin is still humming from the heat of it.

you sit on the edge of your bed, your blanket half-pulled down, the air cool against your bare legs. your phone is where you left it—face down on your nightstand, completely still. the buzzing that had filled the room earlier has stopped, like it’s holding its breath. waiting for you to be ready.

you reach for it slowly, with both hands, like you’re afraid you’ll drop it if you don’t steady yourself. the moment your fingertips brush across the screen, it lights up.

and everything changes.

1,462 new notifications. tips: +$1,951.76. new subscribers: +863.

you sit there, frozen, as the likes roll in by the second, stacking in waves across the screen. every few seconds, another tip comes in. ten dollars. twenty. fifty. a hundred. your balance is growing so fast it doesn’t feel real.

you open the comments, and the words hit you all at once.

“this is art. actual art.” “i’m obsessed.” “i came without even touching myself. that’s how real this felt.”

you read them with wide eyes, your thumb scrolling slowly, like dragging through honey. it’s too much to take in all at once. too many voices. too many people who’ve seen you now—really seen you—and want more.

you click over to your inbox. there are dozens of messages, all timestamped from the early hours of the morning. most of them are praises, offers, begging. a few are bold. graphic. unfiltered. and buried among them—at the very top, a verified profile—is the one that makes your entire body still.

@heefreakshow.

you’re completely taken off guard.

nothing could have prepared you for this—none of it. not the flood of attention. not the numbers still rising. and especially not him. not the quiet, effortless way one of the creators you watched last night—half in awe, half with your hand buried between your thighs—has now turned his gaze on you. messaged you. noticed you.

you stare at the notification like it might disappear. like maybe your phone glitched and it’s not really him. your thumb hovers just inches above the message, heartbeat loud in your ears, the weight of everything that’s happened pressing down on your chest.

and then—before you can overthink it—you press.

the message expands across your screen in one clean, perfect line.

god, you were so fucking hot. why don’t you let me see what more you’re capable of doing?

you go still.

your throat tightens. your lips part, but no sound comes out. your entire body feels like it’s pulsing—heat rising from your neck, crawling down your spine, settling low in your stomach. your eyes read the words once. then again. then again.

you’re speechless.

not because it’s crude—though it is. not because it’s confident—because of course it is. but because it’s him.

you sit there, phone trembling slightly in your grip, and all you can think about is how none of this would’ve happened if nari hadn’t pushed you. if she hadn’t looked you in the eyes and told you she believed in you. if she hadn’t said the words you were too afraid to say out loud.

you owe her everything.

because now? now you’re more than okay. you’re not just surviving—you’re starting. you’re in it.

and you have absolutely no plans of stopping.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ first episode is done! honestly i'm excited to see how this will play out because a lot more is coming, i hope you all enjoyed!

[hail-dondus]

Pixar did not have to go as hard as they did with the Kronos Unveiled scene in The Incredibles (2004), yet they did anyway and gave us one of the best scenes in modern cinema. Literally cannot stop thinking about how good this scene is, from the animation to the build up to the soundtrack.

I don’t think I truly understood how dark this scene - and this film - was a child: Syndrome is systematically and strategically luring in superheroes and killing them off in order to test and improve his Omnidroid design… these people were not only supers but they also had family and loved ones too, just like Bob, and one day they would have just disappeared because chances are they weren’t telling people where they were going because it was "top secret" and against the law. They thought they were doing something good, like helping the people in the island, while also getting to relive their glory days, perhaps even paving the way for superheroes to make a proper comeback… only for Syndrome to kill them in cold blood.

Most of these people can actually be seen at Bob and Helen’s wedding in the beginning of the film - they weren’t just random supers, they were their friends, people they worked alongside and cared about. It’s even worse when you realise that Bob probably blames himself because, after all, Buddy/Syndrome was his biggest fan and he dismissed him by not letting him help.

The relief on Bob’s face when he realises Syndrome doesn’t know where Helen is - meaning he also doesn’t know where their children are because he didn’t realise they were married at this point - is so realistic and gut wrenching to see. The relief contrasting with the anguish of knowing how much danger they and their entire family could have been in the entire time without even knowing...it's so well-done, you can literally feel it.

It’s also worth noting that originally the next target wasn’t Mr Incredible but Frozone - that was who Mirage was trailing, hence why his location is “known”. Imagine if she/Syndrome hadn’t realised that Mr Incredible was with him and they’d lured Frozone in instead as planned; he would have gone to the island to fight the Omnidroid 8 in a volcano setting. We saw how being in the burning building dehydrated Frozone and made it impossible to use his ice powers - presumably it would have been the same in the middle of a lava filled volcano, and he’d have been slaughtered just like the other superheroes before him.

This scene shows an entire generation of superheroes - Bob, Helen and Lucius’ generation - wiped out all because Syndrome felt slighted by his hero as a child, because he internalised that slight and let it drive him to revenge. And, if we take into account the deleted alternate opening scene, it’s mentioned that superheroes "aren't supposed to breed” - meaning there’s a likelihood that Violet, Dash and Jack-Jack are among the very few supers of the next generation. I know that it's deleted and so not really canon, but it's definitely a concept to consider, I think.

Then there's the fact Syndrome named the project "Kronos" - Kronos was a God who overthrew his own father in order to take over his rule, and then he ate his own children to prevent them doing the same thing to him. It feels like it reflects Syndrome once looking up to Mr Incredible and even saying "I could be your ward!", meaning Mr Incredible adopting or fostering him - the project name is a metaphor for Syndrome destroying the Supers, especially Mr Incredible, who he viewed as a father figure. The Omnidroids he built killed two birds with one stone: not only was he able to acquire the data to upgrade the robot to its final design, but it also eliminated the real super heroes and so left him as the last remaining "superhero", even though his powers are man-made, not something he was born with.

Not only did he want to become the only remaining superhero by killing the real ones in revenge, he also planned to sell his inventions at some point so everyone can be super - because "when everyone is super, nobody is". It's like a final blow to the memory of the superheroes he had killed.

I've talked too much about this scene but God... I love it so much more as an adult because it's just so chilling to think about. I'm sure other people can put it much more articulately than I just tried to, but I just really wanted to appreciate this scene.

[sevikaswifegurl]

RED FLAG!

Synopsis: What happens when he says that one of his habits is a red flag?

Word count: 2.389

Characters: Carlos Sainz, Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, Kimi Antonelli and Lance Strol.

Note: English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance if there are any errors and promise that I will improve the templates

Inspiration: @tsunodaradio please don't curse at me, I swear I looked at your post and thought: "I have to do one like this, I need to" and I love your account, so I was inspired by it, I'm sorry if you feel "invaded" or something like that, if you feel that way let me know and I'll delete the post!

CARLOS S. (CS55)🚩 ⸻ INSTANT TEXT REPLIES

Carlos realizes something's changed when you stop replying so quickly. It’s not a huge absence — not hours, not days. Just long enough for him to notice that now, your messages sit there. Waiting.

Before, it was automatic. He’d barely hit “send” and your reply was already coming in. Sometimes you both typed at the same time, your messages overlapping. It was lighthearted, fun. He laughed, and you used to say you just wanted to make sure he never felt alone.

But after that stupid conversation — just a random night, when he made a thoughtless joke about replying too fast being a red flag — it all stopped. You smiled, but it wasn’t the same. The next morning, you took over twenty minutes to reply to a “good morning.” That had never happened before.

By the third time he notices it, he can’t pretend anymore.

You’re sitting on his bed, rubbing lotion into your hands, lost in your own routine. Carlos is leaning against the doorframe, watching you. And he says it — no warning:

“You stopped replying fast because of me, didn’t you?”

You glance over your shoulder at him, not quite following.

“You said it was a red flag.”

“I was joking.” He folds his arms, stepping closer. “But I think I hurt you.”

You take a deep breath and lower your gaze.

“You laughed at one of the only things I did without thinking. Replying to you quickly… it was never about anxiety. I just liked talking to you.”

Carlos sits beside you. Your shoulders brush.

“I didn’t want you to change that because of me.”

“I know.” You smile, just a little.

“But I thought maybe you didn’t like it as much as I thought you did.”

He takes your hand. Squeezes it gently.

“I loved it. Still do. I stare at my phone like an idiot, waiting for that ‘hey’ two seconds after mine.”

You laugh under your breath. Rest your head on his shoulder.

“Then don’t complain when I go back to being way too fast.”

“I won’t. Promise.”

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You reach for it, type a reply without even looking. Carlos smiles.

You’re back.

OSCAR P. (OP81)🚩 ⸻ TAKING A GYM MIRROR SELFIE

Oscar never thought something as simple as a gym mirror selfie could mean so much. It was more than just a photo — it was a fragment of your day, a stolen moment between sweat and effort that he could keep and revisit whenever the distance started to weigh heavy.

He loved those pictures. Your hair tied up in any way, sometimes damp, sometimes stuck to your forehead with sweat. The soft gym lighting glowing against the foggy mirror. That crooked little smile you’d give the camera, like you were saying, “I’m here, I’m still going.”

Every photo you sent was like a secret note, a quiet reminder that even far apart, you were connected. He’d check his phone with this ridiculous anticipation, waiting for that one notification that could brighten up the middle of a long day.

Sometimes it was a classic selfie — sports bra on, elbow on your waist. Other times, a short clip of your workout, muffled music in the background, your focused eyes as you pushed through the final rep. The caption could be anything — “almost died,” “PR on leg press,” “barely surviving” — but to him, every word was a precious detail of your routine, your effort, your strength.

And then, one day, the photos just... stopped.

At first, he thought it was just a break. Maybe you were tired, or too focused on training to think about documenting every moment. But what started as a pause turned into silence. The silence became longing, and longing turned into this quiet, aching emptiness he didn’t quite know how to fix.

He missed those images the way he missed your scent when you were apart too long, the way he missed your touch after a bad day. He missed opening his phone and seeing your flushed face, that tired but proud look in your eyes, that visual proof that you were out there, pushing through, winning.

One night, after another full day, he gave in. Picked up his phone, hesitated just for a second, and typed:

“I miss your gym selfies.”

On the other end, you laughed — light, surprised.

“Really? I thought you said that was a red flag.”

He shook his head, even though you couldn’t see him.

“Red flag? Never. I love them. They're my favorite part of the day.”

You went quiet for a second, then your voice came through soft and careful:

“Then why did you say it was?”

Oscar sighed, a little embarrassed.

“I didn’t want to sound weird. I thought it might annoy you.”

“You don’t annoy me” you said, and he could practically hear the smile on your lips.

“Alright. I’ll send you a bunch of selfies. Every time.”

The phone buzzed a minute later.

There you were — hair stuck to your forehead with sweat, cheeks flushed, the gym mirror foggy behind you, a tired but genuine smile lighting up the frame.

Oscar smiled to himself on the couch, holding his phone like it was the most valuable thing in the world.

“Best thing that ever happened to my timeline” he replied, already counting down the minutes until the next one.

From that day on, the gym mirror selfies became a ritual. More than just photos, they were pieces of both your days — invisible threads that held you close through distance and time. Every picture a silent promise: that no matter where you were, you’d find each other — even if just through a screen and a slightly blurry selfie.

And deep down, Oscar knew those photos — so simple, so you — were more than just images. They were the way you stayed close, remembered, loved.

LANDO N. (LN4)🚩 ⸻ LIKING EVERY PHOTO ON HIS SOCIAL MEDIA FEED

You never really thought about it. Liking Lando’s posts was one of those small, automatic things — a reflex. He posted a gym mirror selfie, you liked it. A random selfie in his stories with a ridiculous filter, you liked it. A photo of the car, the track, a random sunset: like. Always.

It wasn’t flattery. It was just... you being there. Present. Saying everything without saying anything.

At first, he thought it was funny. He used to send you screenshots of the notifications, saying “First like as always,” or “Can’t get a second of peace with you online.” It was a joke. Affection disguised as teasing.

Until the video.

You were lying in bed, scrolling aimlessly through your feed, when you saw the title: “F1 Drivers Decide Their Personality Red Flags!” You clicked for entertainment, nothing more — until Lando showed up on screen, cap on, with that look like he was always on the edge of laughing.

“Red flag?” he repeated, thinking. “If you like every photo on my feed… I’ll block you.”

Your stomach twisted. Sure, he laughed after the line. But it was that weird kind of laugh — the one that comes a little late, with a half-look. And it stuck in your mind.

The next post, you hesitated. Scrolled past without hitting the heart. And then you kept doing it. One, two, five posts — no likes from you. Nothing on his stories either. No comments.

Two days later, you were both on the couch, sharing a pizza and watching some random movie neither of you were really paying attention to. He was scrolling through his phone while you queued up the next episode.

“You stopped,” he said, out of nowhere.

You looked over. “What?”

“Liking my photos.” His eyes stayed on the screen, but his voice was more serious than usual.

“You said you’d block me,” you shrugged.

He finally turned his head, raising an eyebrow. “You thought I meant that?”

“It sounded like you did.”

Lando sighed and leaned back against the couch, dropping the phone onto his lap. “It was a joke. I said it smiling.”

“You smiled two seconds after saying it. That’s not the same thing.”

He was quiet for a moment, just looking at you, like he was deciding whether the argument was worth it. Then, softer:

“I liked it. Seeing you there. Liking everything. It made me feel like you were... with me. Even when you weren’t.”

Your chest tightened. You dropped your gaze for a second, until he reached over and laced his fingers with yours.

“If you want to like everything, go ahead,” he said, with a half-smile now. “Just don’t like stuff that’s too old or I’ll know you’re stalking me.”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “As if you don’t do worse.”

“I’m discreet.”

“You liked a 2016 photo of mine at three in the morning.”

“I was conducting historical research.”

You rolled your eyes and pulled out your phone. And there, curled up next to him on the couch while he laughed beside you, you opened his profile and liked everything again. One by one.

Even the dumb ones.

Especially the dumb ones.

KIMI A. (KA12) 🚩 ⸻ NOT BEING TAGGED IN A GROUP PHOTO

The photo was taken right after the movies, after a whole Saturday wandering around the mall with the group. You hadn’t thought much about it: just lifted your phone, squeezed everyone into a tight frame, and hit the button before anyone blinked.

The result? Three spontaneous smiles, Giulie’s funny pout, and Kimi in the background, half-hidden behind you, with an expression too neutral for someone who had laughed so much half an hour before.

You posted it as soon as you got home. A simple caption, basic emojis. Tagged those who had replied to your stories on the way back. And went to sleep.

The next day, his notification wakes you up.

Kimi Antonelli commented on your post: “Nice photo. Too bad not everyone was there, huh?”

You don’t get it at first. Only later, reviewing the post, you notice the absence.

You didn’t tag him.

You open the chat without thinking twice.

“It was unintentional.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Kimi, I swear.”

“You even tagged Alessandro, who barely appears.”

You laugh despite the mini panic. Because yes, Alessandro only shows a shoulder and an eyebrow — and yet he got tagged. Kimi, fully there in the background, didn’t.

“Want me to fix it?”

It takes a while. Like three minutes.

“Too late now. Delete it. It looks ugly.”

You drop your phone on the bed. He never says things directly. But you know this tone. Kimi can drive a kart at two hundred an hour, but he feels invisible in a group photo.

In the afternoon, he shows up in front of your house like nothing happened. Old sweatshirt, messy hair, phone in his pocket. But when you open the gate, he just says:

“You forgot me.”

You cross your arms. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” He puts his hands in his pockets. “But still.”

You stare at each other for a long second.

Then you pull out your phone. “Smile.”

“For what?”

“For a new photo.”

“Just me?”

“No,” you answer, walking over and tugging his sleeve. “Ours.”

He hesitates but smiles — that quiet kind you’re the only one who recognizes. You take the selfie, the two of you in front of your house, with no one else left to forget to tag.

You post it right after, no filter, no caption.

And tag only him.

LANCE S. (LS18) 🚩 ⸻ TAKING A PICTURE OF THE MEAL BEFORE LETTING PEOPLE EAT

Lance realizes it the worst way possible: when it’s already gone.

You’re at a restaurant in Barcelona, and the dish that arrives is too beautiful to just let pass — one of those you’d normally turn to the side, adjust the napkin, and murmur “just a second” while looking for the best angle.

But this time, you just... eat. As if you couldn’t let it go by.

He watches for a moment longer than he should, his own cutlery still resting at the edge of the plate.

“Aren’t you going to take a picture?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

You chew slowly. Give a small, almost shy smile. “You said it was a red flag.”

His fork slips slightly from his hand. “That was a joke.”

“I know.” You shrug. “But you were serious. At least at the time.”

He doesn’t answer. Just pretends the food is still too hot.

Later, with you asleep on his chest, Lance scrolls through the camera roll on your phone. Pictures of everything: your sneakers pressed against the subway, a crooked plant in Vienna, the reflection of you both in some shop window in Milan. But food... no. The last one is weeks ago — pasta with pesto and a glass of white wine. His hand appears in the corner, holding the plate for you.

He feels a silly tightness in his chest. It was just a photo, he thinks. But it was also your way of caring for things. Your way of marking what was beautiful. Of not letting it go unnoticed.

The next morning, you make pancakes. Serve two plates with cut fruit and a drizzle of honey, all simple, all beautiful your way. When you turn your back, he grabs the phone almost without thinking.

“Hey,” he says. “Hold the plate a little more to the left.”

You freeze. Turn slowly, looking at him.

“You want to take a picture?” you ask, voice low, suspicious.

Lance gives a half smile. “I want to see you do it again.”

You hesitate for a second. Then adjust the plate.

“Like this?” you ask.

“Perfect.”

[asmolbirb]

.

[kyra45]

It’s a new year so here’s a start of the year reminder.

badjokesbyjeff made racist jokes and also called all Palestine gfms a scam. Additionally, the jokes are often just stolen from other places without any credit/reference to the source material. The posts this account made have been deleted, but can be found if you look around web archive. No apology has ever been given and posts resumed after some time had passed. Also harassed el-shab-hussein in the since deleted posts.

writing-prompt-s also called all Palestine gfms a scam and made several “prompts” based around the claim such as “your running a scam ring that’s been found out by scam busters” (presumably a jab at the people who bust scams?). Regardless, this account said 90s-ghost wasn’t legitimate because “anyone can backdate posts” even though there are plenty of ways to distinguish a blogs age outside of post dates. Additionally, most of the prompts are rarely original and often are just taken from other websites without proper credits. Made an ‘apology’ after deleting the posts; Deleted the apology later making the legitimacy of its claims uncertain. Even if the account is to be retired, the apology should have been left up for future reference. (Though all it really said was the admin hadn’t ran the blog in years and mods were the ones who did all that and the admin didn’t want political content on the blog.)

This is just a reminder, don’t go harassing these blogs just because of this post. Most people forgot this happened and I want people to remember it. Not every Palestine gfm is a scam; Most are ran by family members or good friends who can be trusted. You can find many posts about the process by Palestinian users or those who work to help them.

[assume444it]

I Dare You.

I dare you to get rid of it all.

❌ All the subliminals.

❌ All the LOA accounts you’re following.

❌ All the posts you’ve saved.

I dare you to stop searching and finally decide.

STOP looking for outside validation. STOP waiting for something outside of you to convince you it’s working. You are the only solution.

🌸 What if you just became the version of you who already has it?

🌸 What if you just lived in the new story without needing constant reassurance?

🌸 What if you finally trusted yourself instead of seeking proof?

💖 Affirm:

🩷 “I am the only validation I need.”

🩷 “I trust myself completely.”

🩷 “My desires are already mine.”

✨ Delete, unfollow, let go—and step into the reality where it’s already done. You don’t need anything but your own mind. ✨

Are you ready to finally trust yourself? I dare you.

p.s.— if you really had everything you want would you be holding on to all that loa stuff ? no you’d be living your life !

[sosasturns]

REDDIT RABBIT HOLE n MOANS matt sturniolo

u/MrMunch667 · 1d · Verified!

NSFW [M4F] Alone again… [Ramblefap] [Whimpering] [Male moans] [Tons of Begging] [Edging] [Real Orgasm]

LISTEN [10:58]

it started as a joke. your friend—who was way too deep into the world of nsfw audio—sent you link after link, swearing up and down that the right voice could change your life.

"it’ll never be me," you scoffed, deleting the messages without opening them. but she was persistent, always bringing it up in conversation, laughing about the audios she found, talking about her favorite voice actors. eventually, one night, curiosity won.

you weren’t sure what did it, if it was boredom or intrigue, but you clicked on one. then another. and another. and suddenly, you were hooked. there was just something about the rawness of it, the way it felt so personal, like someone was whispering just for you. it was hot, undeniably so. so much so that you ended up making a reddit account just to save your favorites. you told yourself it was just in case.

then you stumbled across him.

u/mrmunch667.

nothing about his profile stood out—no personal details, no flashy bio, just a simple: new audios every week. male. i am 22. single. 18+ please dni if you're a minor (:

the backwards smiley caught your attention. it reminded you of matt. he always used them when he texted.

but that was stupid, right? it could be anyone.

so you ignored it. and you listened. and then you listened again. and again. every week, without fail, you found yourself checking for his new posts. saving. upvoting. sometimes, you even commented. and then, one day, you got a reply.

1 notification on reddit: u/mrmunch667 replied to your comment on r/gonewildaudio.

LMAO don’t wanna know what the means

that was when you knew you were in too deep.

⋆˙⟡𓂃⊹ ⸝⸝⸝

matt was just a friend. someone you saw in group settings, always surrounded by mutuals. you'd never hung out alone, never had a one-on-one moment that wasn’t just passing conversation at a party or game night. he was just matt. your friend.

so when plans got canceled last minute, leaving just the two of you, it was weird.

but he didn’t make it weird. he was casual, like always, inviting you in with a lazy half-smile and a scratch at his jaw. “guess it’s just us, huh?”

he gave you a quick tour of his place, leading you through the hallway with easy strides. “this is my room,” he said, pushing open the door. normal. plain. some framed posters, a neatly made bed, a desk setup. “desktop’s just for gaming ‘n stuff.”

stuff?

you didn’t ask. you just nodded. “cool.”

back in the living room, he threw on a movie—basic instinct (1992)—and settled in beside you. it was fine at first. comfortable, even. but then he started shifting. clearing his throat. adjusting the blanket over his lap. it wasn’t until the next sex scene that you noticed.

his breath hitched.

you glanced over. bad move.

his head was steady, eyes locked on the screen, but his fingers twitched against his knee. his thighs tensed. then, under the blanket, his hand moved. like he was hiding something.

“you good?”

he hummed. “mhm.”

suspicious.

but you didn’t piece it together until you leaned over him, reaching for the remote. his breath stuttered, a barely-there grunt slipping free.

your eyes snapped to him. “sorry. didn’t know you liked the movie that much.”

“no, i don’t—i mean, i do. it’s jus… your hand was close to my dick—.”

“matt are you hard?”

silence.

“…matt.”

he exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face before finally looking at you. his eyes were darker than usual, almost guilty, but there was something else there too. something like want.

he swallowed. “yeah.”

heat pooled in your stomach. you shifted closer, pulse kicking up. “would you… um. would you like some help?”

he blinked. then, slowly, he nodded.

you shifted closer, deliberate and teasing, letting your fingers trace over the outline of his cock, dragging your palm over his sweats just to feel the twitch beneath. he sucked in a sharp breath but didn’t make a sound.

even when you slipped under the blanket, hand slipping beneath the waistband, wrapping around him, he only let out these shallow, uneven exhales. restrained.

stingy.

so you pushed.

you stroked him slow, teasing, dragging your thumb over the leaking tip, pressing into the slit just enough to make his thighs twitch. he jerked in your grip, body betraying him, but he still didn’t give you what you wanted.

until you tugged his sweats down, freeing him, and replaced your hand with the wet heat of your mouth—warm, soft, perfect.

then he cracked.

a sound ripped from him, low and broken, like it had been forced out, something he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. and oh, that did something to you.

you hummed, letting him feel the vibration of it, and his whole body jolted. his hand flew to his mouth, teeth sinking into his knuckles, his other fisting the blanket like his life depended on it.

pathetic.

and god, that made you ache.

so you kept going, setting a slow, deliberate rhythm, dragging your tongue along the underside, sucking just enough to make him squirm. his thighs trembled beneath your palms, stomach clenching with every shaky inhale, but he was still holding back. biting down on his hand, muffling himself.

not for long.

you took him deeper, inch by inch, until the tip nudged the back of your throat. his abs tensed, a breathy oh, fuck slipping past his lips. his chest was rising and falling fast now, fingers digging into the couch cushion, every muscle locked up tight as he fought to stay quiet.

you wanted to ruin that restraint.

so you did.

you hollowed your cheeks, swallowing around him, keeping him there, waiting until his whole body shook before dragging off slow, sucking him back in like you needed it. like he was something to savor.

then he broke.

his hand slipped from his mouth, head tipping back against the couch as a moan ripped from his throat. not quiet, not restrained, just raw, desperate pleasure.

you felt it everywhere.

and then it got worse for him.

because now that he wasn’t holding back, he couldn’t stop.

the whimpers, gasped curses, frantic little please, fuck, feels s’good, more, don’t stop-‘s.

his voice.

his voice.

the realization sent heat flooding through you, a throb pulsing between your thighs. him. it was him.

you moaned against him, nails scraping lightly down his thighs, and his whole body jerked, another wrecked, ruined sound spilling from his lips.

he was falling apart, and you were loving it.

so you didn’t let up. you doubled down, took him deeper, swallowed around him until he choked on a sobbed moan, hips stuttering, thighs trembling. his body was so tense, like he was fighting against something inevitable—losing.

and then he did.

he came with a broken moan, hips lifting off the couch, cum spilling hot and thick down your throat as he trembled through it. his stomach clenched, his chest heaved, his hand flew back over his mouth—biting down again, probably to stop himself from making another noise.

again, pathetic.

you pulled off him slowly, swallowing, licking the corner of your mouth before glancing up at him.

his eyes were hazy, lips parted, chest rising and falling hard. absolutely wrecked.

you tilted your head, smirking.

“way better than being alone again, huh?”

matt just blinked at you, still trying to remember how to fucking breathe.

you never did find out if matt was mrmunch667. but after countless ‘hangouts’ later, you were pretty sure you could put a face to those sounds.

@ sosasturns

sosa’s notes: got nsfw va (sub)!matt on lockdown… props to my fren bernardsbendystraws’s post for the idea. we outside w this 1 chat!

nsfw va matt:

[yois2aki]

𝑪𝑨𝑳𝑬𝑩 𝑺𝑴𝑨𝑼

how would his behavior on social media derive?

caleb isn’t obnoxious about it, but when he’s in love, it shows—especially on social media. he’s the kind of guy who acts like he doesn’t care about posting, like it’s just something he does when he’s bored, but his account lowkey turns into a shrine dedicated to you. at first, it’s subtle—just pictures from his day where you just happen to be in the background, or a blurry shot of you laughing with no context. maybe he captions it something stupid like “why she laughin.” but everyone in the comments is already onto him.

but the second he realizes he no longer has any shame to lose? oh, he’s hopeless. suddenly, his story is full of posts that make it painfully obvious he’s obsessed with you. he’ll post your conversations—usually the ones where you’re roasting him just to prove you’re “bullying” him (even though everyone can tell he loves it). sometimes, it’s a screenshot of you saying something dumb at 2 a.m. with a caption like, “this who I chose to love. :p” other times, it’s a picture of you doing literally anything with the most unserious caption, like “somebody get her.” but then, just when people think he’s all jokes, he drops something that makes everyone lose their minds—maybe a picture of you with the softest “yeah. she’s it.” and no one can even clown him for it because you just know he means it.

he’s also the type to be annoyingly proud of you. if you so much as breathe in a mildly impressive way, he’s posting about it. did you cook something? best believe he’s taking a picture before even trying it, saying “chef” with the little hands-up emoji. did you achieve something? he’s reposting it like he’s your biggest fan, because he is. he’d post you on his story just because you looked good that day, with some cocky caption like “she’s literally unreal. don’t talk to me.” and if anyone tries to joke around in the replies, saying something like “caleb bro u lost” he’d just be like “nah, I won actually. ;)”

if you post pictures—especially if you’re looking really good—caleb is on it immediately. he’s the first like, the first comment, and if he’s feeling extra, he’ll repost it to his story with something cocky like “y’all see what I get to look at?” or just a simple mine. if he’s in a teasing mood, he’ll reply to the post with something like “aight. take this down. >:(” just to see if you’ll react, but everyone knows he’s eating it up. and if you don’t send him the pictures first before posting? he’s offended. “so you're just gonna post this without warnin’ me?? unbelievable.”

oh, and if anyone dares to flirt with you in his comments? deleted. blocked. gone. one time, someone tried to be slick replying to one of your posts with a flirty comment, and caleb replied immediately with just, “?” and that was enough. he doesn’t even need to say anything—he makes it clear you’re his without even trying. and the best part? he doesn’t even think he’s being that obvious about it. he’s just showing you off the way he thinks you deserve.

[kimsaena88]

It's been a long time since I last posted. I’ve been quiet for too long. I've thought about whether I should post at all, but I need to get this out of my head. Out of my heart.

As a Jimin biased ARMY, the last few years have felt like a nightmare. From the negligence and mismanagement by the company, to the excuses and bitterness from the fandom, the euphoric dream has devolved into something so twisted and ugly.

To say I am disappointed is an understatement. I'm utterly heartbroken and disgusted to finally realize what this fandom has become. I should have seen it coming. I was warned before, but I was too blind to see what was right in front of me.

Since I became an ARMY, I have vehemently and relentlessly defended this fandom. However, even back then, I witnessed the hate towards Jimin come from not just outside the fandom but from within. Jimin biased fans were told to “Report and block. Don’t engage.” Jimin fans did just that, but the hate continued to escalate. It got louder. It spread farther. It has since reached the point where it's clear ARMY does not find any of the malicious or threatening rhetoric alarming, and the majority rather doesn’t care.

Recently as last year, ARMYs turned a blind eye to Jimin’s father becoming a target of hate. His father had to turn off the comments on the Instagram account for his café, and deleted any trace of Jimin, it had gotten so bad. Not even a few days later, ARMYs came out of the woodwork to protect and defend JK’s dog from “Jimin’s vile fans”. I could not believe what I was witnessing. In real time. The hypocrisy was deafening.

ARMY has earned the title of the most toxic fandom, and it is speed running towards self destruction. It has become so fractured and disjointed. ARMY now only cares about it’s collective ego. The AMAs drama is proof of this. The way ARMY as a whole went about it was disgusting, and I will never forget what happened.

Jimin was belittled. Jimin was decided as less deserving. ARMYs decided Jimin’s talent and art paled in comparison to RM's. ARMY teamed up with other BTS member’s solo fandoms who openly hate Jimin. Jimin once again was sidelined by his own fandom.

ARMY decided what makes a “true ARMY”.

“If you vote for RM, you are a true ARMY.

If you vote for Jimin, you are a solo.”

This message was shared across all social platforms. This idea spread across continents and was translated globally. ARMYs made it clear that Jimin and his fans are the bane of this fandom. Any ARMY that did stand up for him was vilified and labeled an anti, a solo.

So, being a Jimin fan makes me a solo?! Having Jimin as a bias makes me a BTS anti?! Thinking Jimin deserved an award that would reflect his achievements in America means I cannot be a “true ARMY”?!

Then, I must be a solo. At this point, I don’t even want to be associated with such a hypocritical and hateful fandom. I've tried to stay positive. I’ve tried to convince myself that I’m overreacting. But after what just happened with the AMAs, I can no longer tolerate the blatant resentment of Jimin and his fans from ARMY. And to make matters worse, now that it’s over, ARMYs have collective amnesia, claiming none of this ever happened.

I’m tired of biting my tongue.

I’m tired of feeling like I have no place in my own fandom.

I’m tired of being let down over and over again.

I’m over it.

I’m done.

I imagine many will unfollow my account. But, honestly, it will only prove my point.

ARMYs don’t care about Jimin. They think little of him.

Unlike the other members, he is not allowed to have his own fans.

Unlike other members, he does not deserve the awards he has.

Unlike other members, he’s not as deserving of recognition and praise.

Unlike other members, he is nothing without BTS.

I have seen all of this. I wish I was making it up.

Since chapter 2 started, everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, kept complaining about PJMs this, and PJMs that. Always calling PJMs “the worst”, the “most vile”. Never the other solo fandoms. Just PJMs. No other member of BTS has been subjected to the kind of vitriol I’ve seen against Jimin for having solo fans. No other member of BTS has been directly associated with their solos as much as Jimin has. It’s hypocritical and reeks of animosity.

I have seen this mentality even here. Right here in this community on tumblr. It sickens me.

I once did not understand how any ARMY could become a solo, but now I do. When you have to deal with constant bullshit from your own fandom, with no accountability, it’s only natural to want out.

PJMs may get a bad wrap from ARMY, but I understand why they keep growing. Continuing to be an ARMY with Jimin as your bias is impossible. Anyone that claims Jimin is their bias, but has sided with ARMY, until even now, is no Jimin fan. How any Jimin fan can witness what I have and still feel comfortable in such a toxic environment is beyond me.

ARMY has lost it’s heart. There is no more genuine love between fans. Just hate. Hate has clearly won. You are either a “true ARMY” or a Jimin fan. There’s no in between.

So, I choose Jimin.

I will always love BTS, but ARMY is no longer a safe place for me.