#would my moots add me if i did

[membrane-attack-complex]

should we get discord

[jasperthejester]

me: finally accepting theres a good chance im autistic and starting to work up the courage to ask my parents to see if i could get a diagnoses but being scared to

my mom: do you ever think you have adhd? if you want to do a screening for add next time your at the doctors you can

me:

[emily-mooon]

Before I see everyone freak out that Jonathan’s dead cause he doesn’t have any promo let me tell you all one thing with my whole chest:

Jonathan rarely gets promo and merch. He’s an EXTREMELY underrated character and they give it to other more popular characters and/or groups that are GA fan favourites. Whatever we do get, it’s usually crumbs and us Jonathan fans take them cause we know it’s all we’ll get and crumbs is literally better than nothing

We do have at least one possible thing for him. Since it is super pixelated it’s hard to tell but the more I think about it, I’m certain it’s him. The hair looks a lot like his more than any other character (it’s too short to be Robin)

Anyways, please don’t jump to conclusions and think this lack of promo and merch is a sign he’s cooked. This is normal for him. Welcome to the world of being a Jonathan Byers fan!

Edit: I removed the leaked image for precautionary measures as on other sites people’s accounts were deleted and I’d rather not risk it. I still want to keep this post up as to me it is important in relation to discussing Jonathan

[fageljar]

Some silly Freade doodles I did as a break from artfight attacks because when in doubt just draw the creature

[yumeyuyumeyume]

Omfg ur account did the "this user deleted their account" on ur last post and I got spooked

Never delete ur account pookie

I would NEVER. I love sharing my stuff with everyone and meet everyone who loves these stuff, so dw ^^

(that's why I orphan my ao3 works instead of deleting them and I support others doing so)

[th4n0s-wrld]

how to get my friends not to hate me no glue no borax

[bunni-v1]

What do we have here…?

🍓Couldn’t get sending Harumasa nudes out of my head and then I saw @mini-ism post about Caesar going through Livhters phone and had Jimmy Neutron Brain blast. (My moots are so awesome and talented and everyone should give them love). Like... what DO they have on their phone, if anything? So that's what this is. Also took this as my chance to write for my favorite straight white cat boy Seth.

Tw: Nsfw; recording during sex; rough sex (all); somnophilia (Harumasa); breeding kink (Seth); bottom harumasa and seth; Mommy kink (seth); grammar errors (inevitable)

Info: Fem bodied reader (no pronouns i think? use of mommy though); Harumasa x Reader; Lighter x Reader; Seth x Reader; I tried to add plot but who am I kidding this is porn

Harumasa Asaba

The first time Asaba Harumasa asked to record you during sex, you declined. He'd wanted it so he could use it at work, during those days that he really needed you most. It's not like you were shy about your body, especially not with him. He'd seen you naked a million times and done more than just admire your body on numerous occasions. You just didn't want to do it, not with the risk of his very important friends possibly seeing them. The idea of sweet Sokaku sneaking on his phone and somehow finding the videos was mortifying, to say the least. The consequences afterward would probably be even worse, you'd never be able to look Yanagi in the eyes again.

So, you told him no, and who is Asaba to press you on something like that. Feminism was hot, or whatever. He just wanted to see what he could get away with. Little did he know he planted a seed in your brain that kept on growing and growing until, one night, you asked him if he was still into the whole recording you thing.

He wanted to say "No fucking duh." But instead, he smiled and nodded all cute-like, "Oh? I thought you didn't want to? Don't tell me you've been holding out on me now..." And thus began your unexpected obsession with making amateur porn.

Harumasa isn't an idiot, of course, he keeps everything in a hidden folder within a hidden folder, accessible via a password only he knows. (He would give up any chance at living a long life to keep Sokaku as far away from his porn stash as possible). It's surprisingly well organized, coming from him at least. Categorized by type (picture and videos), who was topping, and which kinks you indulged in.

His personal favorites, though, are saved in a separate folder within those already existing folders. They're his go-to when he's feeling so very pent up at work and needs release fast enough that Yanagi won't come looking for him. Like right now, the phone under the desk and the volume just loud enough that only he could make it out by straining his ears. A little treat for his hard work today.

The first one starts out with shaky camera work -- you'd grabbed and started recording in a hurry like you realized this one would make good content for him. (You were right, as usual). The sun is peaking through the curtains of his dark apartment, and with the light, he can just barely make out his sleeping face. You pan the camera down, and one of your hands is gently tracing along his slowly hardening cock, already free and begging for you to suck it. It jumps in your hand as you rub the tip, and then all of a sudden the camera flips and he gets to see your face. You have eyebags under your eyes and your hair is sticking out in several places with little bruises littering your collarbones. Just how he likes you. Shuffling follows and the camera jerks around awkwardly until it rests on his abdomen and refocuses on you, dick still in hand and eyes blinking innocently at the camera.

You tap the tip against your cheek a few times, Harumasa's hips pressing up into your hand as you do so. You smile a little at him offscreen, and it's almost affectionate until you swallow him down in one go. What you can't fit in your mouth you fist with your hand, bobbing in a perfectly trained rhythm that he knows would have him seeing stars. His hips awkwardly jerk, but you take him so well that it doesn't even bother you. The camera shifts again as Harumasa himself begins to wake up. A confused, "Oh fuck," is moaned out in the background, just barely audible over the heavenly sound of you sucking and swallowing him up. Then, your eyes flutter up, right as a hand fists its way into your hair. The video cuts shortly after that, leaving the rest of it up to his impeccable memory.

The next one is a bit longer, and honestly humiliating for him, but he can't get enough of it. Again you're holding the camera, but this time he is awake. It starts with your hand on his ass, marked with the harsh imprint of your strikes, bright and red and sure to bruise (it did). You make sure to get a good angle of yourself pounding him into the sheets, the sounds of squelching mixed with incoherent babbling from him something sinful. You glide your hand over his bare back, camera following along, then tug on his fluffy black hair. He lets out a pathetic whine as you push the camera into his fucked out face. Cheeks red, drool dripping down his chin, eyes watery and unfocused. It's all he can do to answer you when you finally ask, "You were a good boy today, weren't you Harumasa? Tell the camera how good you were today."

"Yessss, 'm a very good boy~" He hiccups out through your harsh thrusts.

You coo at him, pressing a little kiss to his cheek which gets him smiling like a moron in the video, "You know what good boys get to do, right?"

He visibly jolts in the frame, right as you wrap your pretty fingers around his swollen cock just out of frame. A whorish moan leaves his mouth as you pick up the pace, determined to make him cum. His whole face twists in pleasure as he cries out your name, releasing all over your fingers and the sheets. The camera flips, and you're giggling as you spread the covered hand playfully for the camera. "Such a good boy~" You hum, and the video cuts as you begin sucking each finger clean.

The last one he has, which is the only one where he's holding the camera, is his personal favorite. You're in the Section 6 office, legs spread out and perched wobbly on the arms of his desk chair. Miyabi, Yanagi, and Sokaku were all out for lunch and you'd been so sweet to bring him the one he'd 'accidentally' forgotten at home. His pace was fast and rough as he slammed into you. He preferred taking things slow, but even he had to admit he liked the thrill of a quicky in such an open area. One hand comes down to hold your thigh at a different angle, and you let out the squeakiest excuse for his name he'd ever heard. "I thought you didn't want them to see you like this... you're awfully contradictory~" He teases from behind the camera, not that you have it in you to do anything but whine at him. "What would Miyabi think of you..." He tuts, "and poor Tsukishiro might have a heart attack... how shameless can you be?"

He zooms in on your face, head thrown back and mouth stuck wide open with empty gasps just begging to become moans. Your body shakes as his thrusts become less fast and more rough, skin slapping against skin in the quiet office on the very desk he was scrolling through his phone. He can see his name form on your lips.

"Harumasa," Came Yanagi's voice instead, he jumps, quickly locking his phone and slipping it into his pocket, "I understand paperwork is boring, but scrolling on your phone is-"

"Unacceptable, I know," He sighs, "I'm getting to it I promise. Just... right after a quick bathroom break, okay?"

He's up and gone before she can respond, already deciding which video he should watch to fix his little issue. Oh! Or he could ask you for a new one right now, it'd been a minute since he'd gotten you masturbating.

Lighter Lorenz

Lighter didn't get the appeal of it at first. Why would he settle for videos and pictures when the real thing was so much better? Just didn't make sense to him, but sure, he'd let you do what you want. You were damn adorable with how excited you got when he said yes to another video or picture.

It wasn't until an extended period of time away from you that he realized how badly he was missing out. He was horny and you were too far away to do anything about it and no matter what he imagined he could not get off for the life of him. So, he caves and asks you to send one of those videos you'd made. It was probably the fastest he'd cum by himself since getting with you.

Lighter admits defeat, you were right, those videos are something else. Not nearly as good as the real thing, but close enough when he needed it. He's very selective about what does and does not get filmed though. There are some moments he wants to keep just between the two of you, no cameras or anything like that. However, once he gets into it he really gets into it, and those videos are cinema for amateur pornstars.

He keeps the videos and pictures in an unlabeled folder on his phone, not nearly as meticulous about hiding it as Harumasa or Seth might be. He didn't have the risk factor, the girls wouldn't go through his phone without asking first, and he wasn't careless enough to leave it out for others to dig through its contents. He also wasn't stupid enough to look through his little stash with others around, always waiting until he was completely isolated to look.

You were out for the night doing something or another for someone, too kind for your own good, leaving only Lighter and his hand to keep his dick company. He clicks open the folder, smiling to himself when he's met with pretty pictures of you.

He scrolls a bit, then clicks on a more recently recorded one. The camera is focused on your stomach, just low enough that he can see the flared red tip of his dick teasing your swollen clit. A deep chuckle sounds from behind the camera, followed by a grumpy little whine from you. He takes the hint, sliding his tip down and slowly dipping it into your drooling cunt. You let out the cutest squeal as he stretches you out, his hips angling up so his cock presses against your tummy.

The camera zooms in on the outline of his tip, pressing just below your navel. You babble something incoherent, and Lighter hums like it's the most interesting thing in the world. His calloused hand comes into view, tracing the outline with a low hiss. "Fuck, you feel me inside baby?" You mumble something out again, a much smaller hand sliding under his. He presses down as you trace a finger over him, and a whorish moan leaves your mouth. He ruts himself into you, hand pressing down so both of you could feel just how deep inside he was. Your body trembles with each hard thrust, and the camera work gets shakier and shakier the louder Lighter gets until it stops altogether after an annoyed groan — literally thrown across the room so he could focus more on you.

The next one he picks among a sea of delicacies is an older one, one of the first he'd agreed to make with you. The camera is set up on the nightstand, angled nicely so he could see your pretty tits bouncing with each thrust of his hips up into yours. You're wearing his scarf around your neck, and you look like sex incarnate hopping up and down on him.

His veiny hands grab at your hips, guiding each movement with careful precision. You're leaned back, head thrown to the sky as you call his name like a mantra. Each thrust makes your voice peak a little higher, the only thing louder being the slap of wet skin on skin. One particularly rough thrust has you keening, falling forward to press your sweaty face to his just out of frame. He can see your hips roll desperately into his own for all of a few seconds before his hands wrap around your thighs to hoist you up so he can bully his cock into your abused pussy. The whole bed shakes as the headboard slams into the wall, the camera tumbling to the ground forgotten as it records your brainless sobs over the sound of his brutal pace. A weird habit he’s noticed consistently in these videos.

He's close, he can feel it, as he strokes himself a little faster. Just needed the perfect thing to push him over the edge. He taps one of your personal favorites, citing it as 'the most fun' for you to film. In it, he is holding the camera down, you're kneeling between his legs, head resting on his thigh as your deft fingers play with his member. You smile up at him, sliding the bead of precum around the tip like a game.

He's huge in your hand, and it's a miracle you manage to fit your slim fingers around his fat cock. Slowly stroking down, then back up, your thumb sure to run over that vein that made his toes curl. You keep a steady pace, teasing him with the sweetest grin on your face.

"Feelin' good baby?" You purr up at him, amused at what is likely a very red faced Lighter.

There's an audible swallow, and the camera shakes as he answers, "Real good. Takin' good care 'f me."

You giggle, satisfied with the answer enough to lean down and start sucking on his balls. Your other hand scraped against his thigh, the muscles beneath tensing at the sensation. The sound of your sucking, mixed in with his little whimpers has him cumming prematurely, not that it stops him from fucking his hand through his orgasm. The video continues on like that, you teasing him to the edge and denying him his orgasm like a monster. Unlike then, he had quiet the mess to clean up now.

He thinks better of just cleaning it up, though. Instead snapping a quick picture and sending it to you with a little, 'Miss you.'

Seth Lowell

Seth is an incredibly polite, considerate, sweetheart who would never in a million years dream of asking to record you during sex. He might just be the most vanilla guy in all of New Eirdu, and recording seems... a little violating of your privacy. It's not something he considers an option.

Until one day, after a very long week where you and Seth hadn't seen each other for more than a few hours thanks to his work schedule. He's lying in the dorms, texting you about mundane tasks when you throw out how much you miss him. He obviously misses you too, and says so. You ask him if he would like to see how much you miss him, and the sweet thing he is the undertone goes right over his head. He expects a picture of you maybe pouting, doing something you would typically do together by yourself.

When he opens it he's greeted by you, two fingers deep in your own cunt, pretty juices glistening in the dim lighting of your bedroom -- oh god is that his shirt you're wearing? He short circuits, literally just staring slack-jawed at the phone for god knows how long until one of his buddies comes in and starts poking fun at him. He slams the phone down, and he makes it home in record time. That was all the convincing he needed from you to record your (rather basic) sexual escapades.

Seth does not save the videos, ever. They're all in your text chain, pinned there for easy access, but he refuses to keep them in his album. Way too risky for him with his family and his coworkers and... well... knowing himself. They're really only there for you, he doesn't have any free time to watch them and get off. He does, however like watching them when he's alone in the dorms for the night. Just a nice reminder of what he'll be doing next time he sees you.

Like this one, where the camera is pointed down on him, red-faced and teary-eyed as you ride him like no tomorrow. His chest is littered with little purple love bites, and your fingers splay out across them as you roll your hips deliciously against him. He whimpers in the video, shying away from the camera. The hand on his chest reaches over to flick his already too-hard nipple, twisting it a little. A giggle bubbles out of your chest when he keens.

"You like it when I ride you, don't you Seth...?" You coo, tracing your fingers over to the other nipple to give it attention. He nods with a whine, biting back his moans. You pinch him harshly as punishment, "Use your words."

He sighs, humiliated at the degradation, but swallows his pride and responds, "Yes Mommy."

He grimaces at his own voice, quickly closing out of the video to find something a little less... vocal. He settles on one where the camera is pointed down, you're wearing pretty blue lingerie. In this one, he's between your legs, ears flattened back as he gives you little kitten licks to your sensitive bud. The rough texture of his tongue makes your legs twitch, nearly closing on him, but fighting themselves back open.

He looks up to the camera, or more so past it, to look at you just begging for approval. Your hand comes into the frame, rubbing at one of his ears encouragingly. He lights up, taking the sign as his chance to swallow you down. He dives in like a kitten into milk, slurping and sucking with your hand guiding his movements. Your little sighs of approval get his tail curling up in the air behind him. Your little happy kitty, servicing you like the queen you are. “Good boy~” You coo so sweetly, and his tail twitches excitedly behind him.

He smiles fondly at the phone, was it weird to find it more cute than hot. Maybe he was too lovestruck. It didn't matter too much to him as he found one that you had favorited in the chat. He... didn't remember this one at all from the thumbnail, it got him curious.

The first thing he's greeted by is you face down in the sheets, his pale hand pushing your head into the pillows. Then he hears the wet slapping of skin, the camera following down to show where he was fucking you from behind. His entire abdomen is literally shimmering with a mix of your and his cum, the sticky white substance quite literally all over your back and his hands now that he was looking.

This was... he can't believe he had the mental capacity to think to record himself fucking you during his heat. His cock stirs in his pants, but he's too curious to stop watching before he screws himself over too much. The camera shifts as he leans over you, giving it a perfect view as he bites into the back of your neck. Your face is stained with tears, and your mouth is wide open with pleasure -- no sound escaped though, and Seth realizes that he'd fucked your throat raw in this video.

"Gonna fuck you full of my kits, wanna make you a real Mommy. That's okay, right? You wanna have my babies too don't you?" his rough voice mumbles into your skin, and you only nod in response, too fucked out to really do anything else.

He thinks the video will end there, but instead, the camera pulls up again as Seth pulls out. A broken, muted wail leaves you at the loss, but Seth ignores it in favor of recording your used pussy. Globs of cum leak out of it, down your thighs, and Seth's nimble fingers scoop it up and shove it back inside like in a trance. He clicks his phone off at that, way too flustered at the sight.

A frustrated sigh leaves his lips as he falls back into the uncomfortable bedding of the dorm. Great, now he was rock-hard and had no way of getting off. He had work in two hours, but there was no way he'd be getting any sleep like this. He frowns at his lock screen, a picture of the two of you together. You wouldn't mind if he came home and interrupted your rest that much, would you?

[senascoop]

SENA’S FAVOURITES ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁 TAG GAME

Ꮺ by @iovestuck and I might've added-edited some questions to my liking. all of these answers are genuine and not with the bias of some of them being my moots. also, extremely sorry if I didn't add you on here. most of them are nsfw so... minors please do not interact. (💌)

001. WHAT ARE YOUR FAVOURITE FANFICS?

HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER — @i2sunric

i already yapped a lot when I first read her fic but this was personally really really cute to read and I loved heeseung’s and the reader’s bickering a lot.

THE PERFECT COPY — @florestalio

if this fanfic was a person I'd date them lol. this was something new and easily secured a seat in my favs.

STILL INTO YOU — @i2sunric

another one of casey’s work that I love a lot.

COULD I BE MORE OBVIOUS? — @rkvriki

this was written like a year ago and is still really good. especially the way it actually captured the “rich ceo husband” vibes.

BUT DADDY I LOVE HIM — @heechwe

what were you thinking when you wrote that lexi? i couldn't find a single bad thing about the fic when i first read it and ngl it still remains as one of my fav.

FIXED COMFORT — @paarksunghoon

coming back to read this after a bad day and this never fails to bring a smile on my face even if I've already re-read this a lot of times.

002. FANFICS YOU'VE READ RECENTLY?

haven't read much lately but this has to be my list — heehoon jerking off together while thinking of the reader. part one, part two not sure if there's more parts, sharing = caring , and then this mind-blowing fic by casey, heavenly , i personally found this one cute, and then I've read this smtg about toxic situationship heeseung, then this one from mochiwonz which made me laugh, this from yuvany, reader is mean in this one but it's good, little lamb ... I have more but I can't exactly add all of them here—so if you're looking for fic recs, you should check @senascoooop

003. WHAT FANFICS DO YOU THINK SHOULD GET MORE RECOGNITION?

PUPPY ANTICS — @florestalio

I always re-read this because well... no reason-just the descriptions and the scene (though I hate angel for cutting it short...)

YOU’RE LOSING ME — @i2sunric

y'all are missing out on a lot of good stuff if you haven't read this angsty angst fic.

CORPSE BRIDE — @yuvany

start to end-just perfection.

BEWITCHED — @p4ranormaluv

to describe this fic in one word would be #wtfdidijustread? In a good way ofc. this deserves way more notes than it has right now.

TIL DEATH DO US PART — sena

TIED UP IN YOU — sena

self promo lol but I actually like these two of my works and they might as well be my best ones till now.

HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN 10 DAYS — @flwrstqr

a really fun fic to read, especially with the way both the reader and heeseung’s goal was definitely not to fall in love... but the two anyways did so.

VENOM — @gyuuberryy

the tension in this one and half way transformation of jay was just wowwww.

HORROR — @starryjake

the smut was rather really... cute alongside the ending...

666 — @simpjaes

a big fan of dark fics. and this was absolutely flawless!!

Not really a fanfic but rather sfw niki audio by @vanesycho part one, part two, part three, part four. I usually listen to these when I'm feeling down or can't fall asleep.

004. FAVOURITE AUTHORS?

all of my moots ofc lol but other than that ,

@i2sunric — all of her fics are hits and i personally really really really love them.

@florestalio — first found out about her through the fic “human or not” and I liked it from the go. and nevertheless-even if it's been a little time, I think we match the freak nonetheless.

@yuvany — she was in my favs the second i read corpse bride. then there's miss ugly duckling and her recent jay fic... absolutely amazing.

@p4ranormaluv — do I even need to have a reason for her to be here? she's really talented with the way she writes. Though I hope she's enjoying her break <3

@heechwe — every time you think someone can't get more sweet... lexi replies. even her fics are chefs kiss.

@gyuuberryy — she's my hype girl (ofc I'll add her on here and also bcz her fics are a big mwahh)

@mochiwonz — we aren't moots or anything but her works (smaus) randomly came in my for you page and i actually enjoyed a lot of them (so I'm adding her here too)

@paarksunghoon — every time a hard thought of hers comes into my for you-i know my evening's not gonna be so boring. y’all should read her fixed comfort and you plus me fic. 100% recommended.

@starryjake — another author who's also really good at making hard thoughts and fics :)

005. WHICH AUTHOR/READER DO YOU ADMIRE/ADORE THE MOST AND WHY?

all of my readers and moots ^^

but aside from them, i admire casey (i2sunric) & jazmine (p4ranormaluv) a lot and sort of started to write after reading their works <3

now I adore a lot of authors and readers but angel (florestalio) and ady (gyuuberry) have a special place in my heart. and I've actually gotten used to seeing some frequent readers which I absolutely notice and adore but the loud ones so far would be @zyvlxqht @flowerwinds (thank you so much for showing nothing other than love to me and my works) 🫶🏻💗

NOTE FROM SENA , i don't really read a lot which might explain why I don't have some more popular fics or authors in the recs. I'm also very sorry if I've forgotten someone (totally not intentional) this was really fun to make...thank you rain (iovestuck) you're another sweetie I found on blr :)

ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁 tagging anyone who wants to join

[s1rawb3rry]

Fragile! Handle With Care, Sir.

Synopsis: Money’s tight. That’s the beginning and the end of it — the reason you find yourself responding to an anonymous ad on a dusty forum thread. "Female nude figure model needed — discreet, well-compensated, urgent" is all you remember from it. You didn’t expect much. Definitely not him… and definitely not returning, over and over. He tells you it’s academic — your face, your form, your flush. But what began as art turns into obsession. He touches like he’s still studying you — Every gasp, every shiver, every drip he’s cataloging. He talks to you like you’re a masterpiece he hasn’t finished. Like he’s not done carving you open. You're no longer just his study. You’re his favorite piece that he can’t stop refining.

Word count: 14.6k 

Pairing: art major!Sunghoon × nude model / muse!reader

Warnings: university art major au, smut centered (MDNI), dark themes (???), reader is an unreliable narrator, unprofessional relationship, size kink, oral sex (m!rec), fingering (f!rec), power dynamics, age difference, yn called him ‘sir’, nicknames (darling, precious, sweetheart, etc), soft dom!Sunghoon x sub!reader, yn loves to be praised a little too much, yn kinda becomes a little bratty at the end bccc why not hehe, obsession (on both sides), both are insane and unhinged actually sorry (not sorry), light degradation / praise & humiliation kink, hoon is nice pinky promise, grinding (on a chair), cum play / swallowing / smearing / creampie (i hate this word), exhibitionism / being watched / put on display, edging / delayed orgasm / denial, overstimulation, v in p, unprotected sex, bulge kink / breeding kink, we still have the aftercare promiseee

a/n: RE-read and take the warnings veryyyy seriously, yall know i commit to my themes lol. I did have to take out some scenes because frankly it was getting so long and I couldn't stfu sooo. I'm not 100% proud of the writing or story telling or the pacing, i was so overwhelmed by it that i stopped taking it seriously LMAO but im still posting it either way bc fuck it, i cant leave you guys hanging. A special thank you to my lovely lovely lovely moots and dear friends @hoonieyun and @orxngebloods you guys helped me push thru this even tho I wanted to burn it with me in it LMAO thank you so so so much <3

Taglist: @hoonieyun @rosepetals09 @xylatox @seungsoftly @bxcndd @kireistrawberryjayla @hoonkishoe  @luvyou2ooo @orxngebloods @cutehoons02 @kaiaonsaturn @ddeonuswife @ambi01 @yukisroom97 @berryzoo @geniejunn @toastmenace @snowprincehoon @annovaz @enhaheart8 @dark-moon-light02 @tobiosbbyghorl @ikeuheartz @heelovesmeknot @pjselee @zoe1love @sunooqvrlsx @girlwholovekpop @enhawonnie @juliejulesjule @whateverhoon @luvchaew @hoonieyun @ikeuheartz @heekolazz @wiccangirl29 @pshfan0812 @orxngebloods @seungsoftly @tian-zu @yooonjnng (comment if you want me to add / remove you from the list <3)

⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯

“You’re not messing with me, right?” 

I must’ve asked him three times by now if this was real. My voice shaky over the line, my fingers tight around the phone. I’d just come off a double shift, still in my uniform, pacing the corner of my small kitchen with a half-dead phone pressed to my cheek. He didn’t laugh, just responded with that flat, almost bored voice.

“Why would I bother?”

I found the ad three nights ago, scrolling the university forum during a bout of 3 a.m. financial anxiety. The ad didn’t say much, just a phone number and those couple of words: ‘Female nude figure model needed — discreet, well-compensated, urgent’. It was anonymous, but the tone was unmistakable. Clean. Cold. Borderline rude. It sounded exactly like him. It should’ve raised alarm bells, yet they were easy to ignore in the haze of overdue bills and late shifts. Desperation has a way of softening the sharp edges of good judgment. 

“I just— I’ve never done this before.”

“You’ll be fine.”

It wasn't reassurance. Instead it was a verdict, like something he already decided. That phone call had been short and efficient. His voice was oddly calm like someone confirming an appointment, and not asking a stranger to undress in front of him. He didn’t try to convince me — just answered questions like it was a practiced drill. Like my uncertainty was the only variable that’s still lagging in a process already set in motion.

The stairs leading up to his apartment are wide and spiral, wrapped in an ornate iron banister that’s chipped at the edges but still elegant. The metal scrolls are cool beneath my fingertips, worn smooth where hundreds of hands must’ve passed. They wind upward around a hollow column of air that smells faintly of turpentine, varnish and something more expensive — maybe cologne? maybe leather-bound books and red wine that’s bled into wood? Your guess is as good as mine. 

The wallpaper is floral, pale green and ivory, faded in places like they were left too long in the sun. Dust clings to the edges where the ceiling stretches impossibly high, catching light from a chandelier I can’t see but know is there — because everything in this building feels curated, not decorated. 

My boots echo softly with every step. It’s the kind of silence that carries its own gravity. The hush that says the people who live here were raised not to rush. As I move forward, as I climb higher, there are fewer sounds and fewer lights. More velvet, more shadow.

It is the kind of space people inherit, not rent — where artists live when they can afford to treat their work like a mood, not a career.

The same post-it note was still in my hands, the one with his address scrawled in my rushed handwriting, the ink slightly smeared from when I’d written it down in the middle of our phone call. Rain had gotten to it on the walk here, turning some of the lines into soft blurs. I kept it folded in my pocket, it was unimpeachable like it was a contract. The corners had gone soft from being folded and unfolded, smoothed over with my anxious fingertips in the fluorescent light of the train. I must’ve checked it ten times on the way here, as if the numbers might shift or vanish. 

I should’ve laughed and said ‘I made a mistake’, hung up the phone and gone back to scrolling through job boards that paid ten dollars an hour to smile behind a register. That would’ve been the sane, safe thing to do. But I needed the money, desperately. Rent was overdue, my fridge was empty, and my pride didn’t stretch nearly as far as my bills. So instead of hanging up, I swallowed whatever hesitation I had left and asked for the address, and he gave it to me like he already knew I’d come.

“Bellgrave Residences. 62 Linden Street. Suite 701. Top floor. White door. You'll know it when you see it.”

I stop at the top floor, heart thudding as I come face to face with the door marked ‘Suite 701’, the numbers screaming at me in serif gold. White door, brass handle… just like he said. But what he didn’t mention was the nameplate below it. A slim, engraved plaque: ‘Park Sunghoon’. His name also looks cold when etched in metal. Enough to remind you he lives in a place where names matter.

I check the post-it note again, even though I already know the number by heart at this point. I’ve read it so many fucking times it’s burned into the inside of my eyelids. With one deep breath, maybe even my last from how hard my heart is pounding behind my eyes, I lifted my hand and knocked on the lacquered wood.

The door opens after two knocks with a soft click of an expensive lock turning, my pulse and nerves were the first to answer back in my throat. He came into frame in the low light and for a second, all I could register was the shape of him. Broad, strong looking shoulders framed by a dark button-up shirt — sleeves rolled, collar loose, wrists bare. He didn't just stand, he held space in a way that made the air feel tighter. There’s no smile from him, just a subtle lift of the brow.

“Y/N?” he asked, his voice is smoother in person, though still unreadable. The same light from inside casts him in a halo of soft gold, warming the sharp lines of his pale face. It makes him look almost gentle, until you meet his stiff eyes — detached, too observant. I can’t tell if I’m more intimidated or embarrassed under his gaze. 

Great fucking start… I'm already on edge when fully clothed in front of him. How the fuck am I supposed to stand naked in front of him?

I nod. “Hi, yes. This is for the…” I trailed off, suddenly unsure what to call this. My fingers tighten slightly around the strap of my work bag. “The modeling.” I finished quieter. He doesn’t say anything at first, the silence hangs awkwardly while he watches me, making me too aware of myself — how I’m standing, breathing, inevitably making me shift my weight on the heels of my boots. God, why does this feel like a test?

“You found it alright, come in.” He opens the door wider, stepping aside to let me in.

I step past him, careful not to brush against his shoulder. The warmth from inside wraps around me as soon as I cross the threshold, a quiet shift from hallway chill. The air inside is thicker than it was in the hall — not stuffy, exactly, but heavier. Like it’s been holding its breath all day. That soft orange glow from the lamp deepens now that I’ve stepped inside, blooming against the darker corners of the room.

“Shoes, if you don’t mind,” he spoke up as he clicked the door behind me shut.

“Right, sorry.” I mumbled, already crouching to slip them off. The apology came out fast and automatic like muscle memory, like every customer service job I’ve ever worked has drilled into my mouth. My fingers fumbled at the laces, I tried not to look as frantic as I felt. The socks were embarrassingly mismatched — one navy, one pale pink with a fading cuff. I tucked one foot behind the other instinctively, hoping he wouldn’t notice. He probably did.

That’s what happens when you’re stretched too thin — rushing between jobs, surviving off borrowed hours. Some things just slip. The dark wood beneath me is polished and cool against the soles of my feet. I take a careful step and my socks glide a little. It’s almost too smooth, frictionless. It felt like walking on glass.

Just as I moved to take another step, he spoke. “Here, let me take your coat,” I pause, my fingers twitch at the top button, slow and clumsy, too aware of his eyes on my hands. The wool is still warm from my body. I manage to undo the last clasp, and before I can shrug it off fully, his hands are already there to ease the weight from my shoulders.

He’s close now, close enough that I catch it — something faint clinging to his collar. Clean linen, maybe a hint of bergamot. Not heavy or sprayed, it’s the kind of scent that comes from fabric softener that bakes into the fabric. Subtle, masculine. He folds the coat neatly over his arm. “I’ll hang this up,” he says, already turning away.

“Please, go in.” He gestures lightly toward the interior of the apartment. “Tea?” he asks over his shoulder, already halfway down the hallway before I can answer. His voice carries easily through the tall ceilings, pale walls, and that low golden light from the autumn dusk bleeding through sheer curtains. A velvet couch sits near the window, deep green and sunk into slightly at one side. There’s a stack of well-used sketchbooks on the floor beside it, carelessly neat, like they live there. “— or something stronger, if you need it.”

“Tea is great,” I responded, something stronger might actually dissolve me into the floor right now. I don’t trust my nerves with anything more volatile than caffeine. Carefully, I sat at the edge of a chair that probably costs more than my entire month’s rent. My hands are folded in my lap, trying not to fidget and look like someone who answered an anonymous ad for cash.

And I did. I'm that someone. I’m sitting in a stranger’s apartment, waiting to take my clothes off like it’s a transaction I’m qualified for.

Jesus, what the fuck am I doing here?

The thought comes hard like I’ve been holding it off all night and it finally crashes through. The palms of my folded hands are suddenly damped. I shouldn't have come — or maybe I should’ve thought it through, at least. 

I try to breathe. The space helps, strangely — not by calming me, but by giving me something else to focus on. The air carries a scent that’s difficult to name but impossible to ignore — the soft residue of things once warm: dried mint, cedar, maybe a blend from whatever he wears or drinks. It is soaked in the corners of the room, woven into the fabric of the curtains, the grain of the floorboards. Underneath it all, there’s the dry, fibrous tang of canvas — that raw, papery smell of linen stretched too tight. A hint of old pigment, maybe gesso. Like the room itself has been painted a hundred times and remembers every stroke.

A tall folding privacy screen stands near the window, its wooden panels carved in delicate patterns, edges worn smooth by time. The lacquer of the divider is faded in place. Beside it, a low leather chaise rests in shadow — scuffed, sun-softened, the kind of furniture that remembers every body that’s sunk into it.

When he returns, it’s with two ceramic mugs balanced easily in his hands, no tray or sugar bowl. He sets one down on the low table in front of me. His sleeve pulls back just enough to show the cut of his forearm — lean, steady muscle under smooth skin. Strong without trying. You can tell by how quiet his movements are, but never rushed. Just a controlled man. The tea smells faintly floral.

“Today’s just a try-out,” he says. His tone is steady, like a slow pour. A kind of calm professionalism that still manages to land gently. “Just to see if we’re a good fit. You’re free to leave whenever you need to.” 

I nod once. “Okay.”

Sunghoon studies me for a moment with his hands in the pockets of his pants, then gives a short nod of acknowledgement. He turns and I follow his gaze toward the far side of the room, where the light falls into a soft yellow behind the sheer curtains. The windows stretch nearly to the ceiling, but most of them are covered, the outside world blurred into a sea of suggestions. 

“May I ask why you need this so badly?” I say it carefully — not confrontational, but curious. My voice is softer than I mean it to be, careful in the way you are with someone you don’t know how to read yet. “You make it sound… important.”

“I’m a final-year at Daeho,” he says as he walks, not looking back. His voice is level, but there’s no warmth in it. Just clarity. “This series is for my graduating portfolio. If I don’t finish it, I won't walk.” He says it plainly, as if it’s simple math: no model, no final, no diploma.

“And I’m behind.”

So this isn’t just ambition. It’s pressure and fear of consequences. However, being behind doesn’t seem like just a deadline problem — it looks like something that presses heavily against his pride. Like this work isn’t just academic, It’s essential. As if finishing it is the only way he knows how to stay intact.

I watch his back. Steady, absurdly straight, full — like posture was drilled into him young and never unlearned. The way his sharp shoulder blades moved under the fabric, the narrowing where it meets his waist made it hard not to stare. Ridiculously composed. Like even the way he stands is intentional.

He gestures toward the folding screen. “You can change there. Robe’s clean.” His tone is dry, like he’s keeping a careful distance from anything too personal.

I just got up and stepped behind the divider, it creaked softly as I moved. On the wall inside hangs a slate gray robe — well-worn, freshly folded over a brass hook. I hesitate for a beat because I don’t know if it’s his or something he keeps for these types of occasions. The idea that other people might have worn it makes my stomach tighten… but it smells like him, that same bergamot smell. Like breath on a collarbone. I start unbuttoning with unsteady fingers. Every movement feels twice as heavy behind the screen — the slip of fabric, the tiny clinks of metal of my jeans. I don’t know if he can hear, why does it even matter? He will see everything in a couple minutes. 

My clothes slide to the floor piece by piece. There’s something strange about undressing in someone else’s quiet. Like each layer isn’t just clothing, but some flimsy shield I’d rather not admit I need. By the time I slip into the robe, my heart is hammering against the inside of it.

It fits — just barely. A little too big. Probably meant for him — it makes more sense on a body like his that holds space. The sleeves fall past my wrists, and the hem brushes the tops of my knees. I exhale, and it smells more like him now that it's warmed by my skin. From the other side of the screen, I hear the shuffle of papers, the scratch of charcoal against canvas. Already working and thinking in lines and shadows.

Of course he is.

When I step out slowly, he doesn’t look at me right away. Just moves toward the easel like this is routine — just another class, just another figure to study, just another pose to capture. There’s no shift in his expression, no flicker of surprise. Just the efficiency of someone who’s done this before. 

Am I the one overthinking this? 

He sets down a thick sketchpad with a gentle rustle. The stool in front of it is simple, dark wood polished smooth at the seat’s edge. There’s a single overhead lamp angled toward the center of the room, casting a low, warm pool of light over where I’ll sit. Everything else falls into a soft shadow, unfocused.

“Whenever you're ready,” he murmurs, still not quite facing me. “No rush.” His hand lifts to adjust the lamp, just a few degrees. Then the angle of the easel… then his stool, sliding half an inch left. I realize he’s giving me time, turning his back while I decide what to do.

Deep breath.

Fuck around and find out, I guess.

I slip the robe open, the fabric tugging light at my wrists as it falls. My skin prickles at the change in temperature, or maybe it’s just the muteness in the room. My pulse feels impossibly loud in my ears, making it hard to hear anything else in the studio. The seat is cold, too bare beneath me. I exhale slowly, trying to let go of whatever tension is gripping the back of my neck, trying not to shuffle with any of my limbs.

“All right,” he says, leaning back. “Let’s begin with something natural.” I nod while looking at the floor, not trusting my voice or my eyes. I just shift into the pose he’s asked for: simply sitting. Then, the scraping of charcoal bagin — that soft, scratchy drag of it over paper.

I can feel the weight of his attention. It’s not loud, It doesn’t demand… but it’s absolute. Every part of me feels watched — not in the way men usually watch women, but in a way that’s somehow worse. Deeper. Smarter. Like he’s not just seeing me, but computing shadows on my skin, calculating every angle of light falling off my waist. The kind of gaze that isn’t greedy, but exacting. It makes my chest feel too open.

He sees too much.

His stare isn’t lecherous either. It’s terrifyingly focused — the kind of focus you give to something you don’t want to ruin by blinking. And maybe it’s nothing, maybe it’s just an artist doing his job. Regardless, it still makes me want to look anywhere else. Out of sight, out of mind.

My eyes drift around the apartment — if he's observing me, so will I. Your room reflects your mind after all. If there’s one word for his studio, it’s cluttered — but not carelessly, there’s a method to it. It's the kind of clutter that only looks chaotic to someone who doesn’t live inside it. Every surface holds something: pencils, brushes, old sketchbooks with frayed corners, empty mugs and wine glasses, rolls of paper held down by chipped ceramic weights.

There were canvases leaning against the walls in loose stacks — some blank, others smudged with the early shadows of figures in progress. Some sheets had begun to peel back, as if trying to escape the surface they'd been pinned to. The tools are old-school: graphite, pastels, palette knives and abandoned old brushes in jars of murky water. Everything looks expensive, used but cared for. 

Even his mess has structure.

The pieces that are stuck onto the muted walls are unframed and almost all rendered in charcoal, thick and smudged, edges blurred like smoke. Some are tacked up carelessly, others are more composed — stark lines, dramatic contrast, unfinished limbs trailing into white space.

And then I realized something… most of them aren’t women.

Figures, yes. Bodies, lots of them. But the musculature is different. Sharper, denser. Male torsos bent in half-light, male hands twisted in motion — uncanny in their intimacy — as if he had studied his own in the dark, again and again. A few portraits, hollow-eyed and tired-looking, all bearing the same signature strain. But women — soft shapes, breasts, hips — I hardly see them. Maybe one if I squint. 

Is this why he posted the ad? Maybe that’s what he wanted. Something he didn’t usually draw, something different. Or maybe something he couldn’t look at for long without it getting complicated. He doesn’t interrupt my wandering thoughts, doesn’t rush and just keeps sketching. 

The grainy sound of charcoal dragging across paper is the only thing filling the space. He sharpens his charcoal pencils obsessively, even though the tip is already razor-thin. His movements are methodical, like the repetitive act soothes something restless inside him. The tiny shaving of wood curls onto the floor, a soft testament to his need for control. I can’t help but watch — the way his wide fingers cradle the pencil, how his eyes flicker with something unspoken every time he leans closer to his work. Somehow, I know: he draws like this all the time. 

He shifts in his chair only occasionally, but each time he does, it’s for a reason. When he reaches for a new pencil, it is as if it’s an extension of his own hand. He tilts his head, adjusts the angle of the sketchpad just so, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he studies the lines he’s drawn. There’s a rhythm to it: draw, pause, correct, erase, redraw — an unspoken dialogue between the artist and his canvas.

He rose from his stool with a soft scrape against the polished floor. From where I sat, it felt like he suddenly grew taller — like the air around him stretched upward. His gaze stayed locked on the sketchbook in his hands until the very last second, not betraying any flicker of distraction or hesitation. He moved with that same assured confidence he’d had when he opened the door, not flustered by the naked girl in front of him. “The next position is a bit softer.”

His touch is practiced, clinical, impersonal in theory. One hand slips beneath my arm to nudge my elbow higher; the other settles briefly at my shoulder, coaxing it downward with the gentlest encouragement. His fingertips are ice cold, but the pressure is barely there, it’s more of a suggestion than force. It's from knowing exactly how the body should look in stillness. All I can focus on is the faint scent of charcoal on his sleeves, the soft rustle of his shirt as he shifts. 

When his hand grazes the side of my ribcage to adjust the curve of my spine — a fleeting, featherlight contact meant only to guide the curve of my back. A flush creeps up my neck before I can stop it. I shift just slightly, a reflex more than a choice. It’s barely a movement, but I know he caught it. He notices everything.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, so close I feel it more than hear it, a breath brushing the nape of my neck. 

“I’m sorry —”

“You’re doing well,” he says before I can finish. “You carry tension in beautiful places.” His fingers ghost along my jaw, just adjusting the angle of my face. Ironically, heat pools beneath my skin where his cold fingertips are, a stain only I can feel. “Just stay still, pretty.” My breath stutters. I hear it, loud in my own ears. My hands stay where he placed them, but my pulse has migrated: behind my knees, in the hollow of my throat, in my inner thighs. “Your lines are clean,” he continues, almost to himself, the way someone might admire the grain of marble before the chisel falls. “It would be a shame if I couldn’t capture them.”

The pad of his thumb, smudged dark from charcoal, presses lightly against my cheekbone. it dragged a shadow streak across my skin in a slow, downward arc. Not rough, not tender either. Like sketching without paper. His gaze shifts into thoughtfulness, maybe, with amusement held close to the chest.

“You look better in charcoal,” he said, absently. But it lands somewhere deeper in me — warmer than a compliment, heavier than praise: I look better in his favorite medium. The smudge on my face felt like an afterimage, like he signed something that doesn’t belong to him yet.

He steps back without another word or glance. Just the scrape of his stool against the floor once again as he sinks back into it.

Silence. 

There is silence over my racing heart that is not empty, but dense. A silence that settles and that stretches between us like drawn fabric, close enough to touch but never quite folding in. He returns to his work like nothing happened, pencil moving across paper with his rhythm of habit. I feel the weight of his attention feels heavier now, like he’s not just sketching me — now he’s studying what his touch did.

I’m holding the pose, muscles tight where they need to be, but something else is stirring beneath the surface — not pain, not discomfort, just a gentle pressure, like a quiet heat pressing from the inside out on my lower belly. My breath catches more often than it should. Each inhale is shallower, each exhale trembles on the edge of something unnamed. The air feels thicker now, like it’s pressing closer. Where his charcoal-stained fingers brushed me before, my skin tingles, like the touch is still there, like it’s waiting to be followed up, alive in the wake of his touch.

I try to push the feeling away, to focus on the lines, the light, the shadow — but it deepens instead. It even curls in my stomach. I am both here and somewhere else — caught between the careful discipline of the pose and the slow, building heat that demands my attention and his.

He shifts in his seat, the scratch of charcoal pausing mid-stroke. His gaze lowers to where the soft crease of my thighs parts just barely. A subtle sheen catches in his eyes. In that clipped tone which carries no judgment or surprise, just observation, “you’re wet.”

He said it like he identified a symptom on my body or noting a detail of anatomy. My breath stilled, I didn’t know if I’d imagined it or if I heard him right. But the slick between my thighs pulses with sudden awareness, undeniable now that it's been named, like it was asking to be noticed now. 

I swallow hard, cheeks flushing, caught off guard by his bluntness and the truth in it. “Forgive me, I —” I began, voice unsteady around the syllables. “I don’t know what happened —”

“That’s good,” he adds, eyes locked back on the page. “You’re responsive.” A pause as his pencil moves again, “raw emotions make better art.” His voice doesn’t waver, it never fucking does. It’s detached like he can afford to look at me like a part of his project now. 

But I haven’t detached from the sheer embarrassment of being wet and needy in front of a stranger. The air feels thick against my skin. Each breath feels noticed by him, and I hate that I know he sees it — the way I fidget at the corners, the way my thighs tense ever so slightly making the drippings louder with that squelching sound. God fucking damn it…

Why is my body embarrassing me? It's not fair. It's as if it responded to him before my mind had a chance to catch up, a silent surrender I hadn’t planned. I don’t even know what it’s responding to — his voice? His eyes? His hands? I shift slightly, not enough to break the pose, but enough to feel just how hypersensitive my cunt has become against the open air. I’m too aware of every inch of myself. Too aware that he is aware.

However, none of this seemed to outweigh the way I only saw green. Green as in money. Green as in rent paid. Green as in keeping my head above water.

So I let him draw.

Let myself be looked at.

-*-

It ends the moment he said, “That’s all for tonight. You can cover up now.” He didn’t look at me when he said it. His focus stays on the easel, on the page.

Still, I nodded and pushed myself to stand with muscles I hadn’t realized were shaking by now. I try not to rush toward the folding screen, even though every nerve in my body screams to. I folded the robe neatly, carefully, placing it back on the hook like that small gesture will buy me back some dignity.

Sliding my panties up is the hard part — the fabric catches, making me freeze. They're already damp. Not just warm, but wet enough to make my cheeks go hot again. God, what did this man even do for me to get like this? My jeans feel cooler against my skin when I pull them on, clinging where I don't want them to.

As I finished lacing up my boots by the front door, I saw him appear from my peripheral with a sealed envelope in his hand. “There’s more than we discussed.” he said, offering it out.

I blink in surprise, accepting it with both hands. And indeed, the envelope is thick, heavier than I anticipated. “You were better than I expected,” he adds after a moment; meeting my eyes with quiet sincerity, I feel the weight of both the envelope and his words settle in me. I murmured an instinctive ‘thank you’, unsure where to look, unsure what this exchange even means anymore.

“You’re more than welcome to come back.” he said, opening the door for me. The light from the hallway spills in. I step through it, the envelope still clutched in both hands.

That should’ve been the first and last time I saw him.

-🖌-

I called him two days later. It rang once, twice.

When I heard his voice answer — that calm, unreadable tone that never seemed to ask for anything — I realized I’d already made up my mind. He didn’t sound shocked. “Same time?”

His apartment looked the same, of course — but it felt different this time, less overwhelming and didn’t hit me like a wave. It unfolded slowly and surely. It's a place I was allowed to see with new eyes. I began to see the layers between his strokes. The hush between objects had a kind of elegance to it, like even the silence was curated. His apartment made the world outside feel far, far away.

I noticed things I hadn’t before: books lined along a wall, some with their spines cracked and faded, others stacked haphazardly near a lamp that never seemed to be on. Old film canisters sat unlabeled on a shelf, next to a closed sketchbook weighed down by a river stone. There were candles too, their wax pooled but not yet set. There was a record spinning softly when I came in — I didn't recognize the music… must be something from his time, not mine. 

When I arrived, he greeted me with an almost absentminded politeness, like he was already halfway somewhere else in his mind. There was no warmth, but no coldness either — just a kind of practiced detachment. He didn’t say much after, just gestured toward the familiar folding screen I’d come to associate with him. 

His sleeves were rolled higher today, exposing the sinewy shape of his forearms which are smudged faintly with graphite. there were little smudges near his wrist, near the crook of his elbow. The wire frames of his glasses didn’t soften him. If anything, they made him look more severe. As if they weren’t meant to only correct his vision, but to narrow it — to focus it like a blade. Still, his posture carried that same soft-spoken certainty — the quiet command of someone who never needed to raise his voice to be obeyed.

The poses he gave me were different this time. Longer, for sure. Less forgiving, more demanding. Some of them bordered on awkward — not indecent or lewd but definitely meant for his eyes alone. Posed and exposed.

One of them had my spine twisted slightly to the left. My hands were placed behind me, pressed to the edge of the stool. Another one had one of knees up, the other angled down to the floor. One had my weight tilted back onto my hands, shoulders drawn, ribs visible. There was just the sound of his pencils working and the occasional instruction: 

“Chin down.”

“A little more to the left. Yes, just like that.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“Good.”

My muscles were still getting used to the strain. I tried to mask a wince, but during one of the longer poses, just a sharp breath slipped through my nose as my shoulder locked a little too tight. His pencil paused. “Are you alright?” His voice, for once, held something softer than precision.

“Yeah. Just… sore.” I tried to roll my shoulders a bit without losing the line of the pose.

He stood, his tall build crossed the room in only a couple steps. “I’ll let you take a break in a moment,” he said, pausing beside me. “Just hold this one a little longer, darling.” 

Just like the first time, his charcoal-dusted fingers lifted to my face, grazing the curve of my jaw. His hand was so large, but his touch was light. The contact sent a nervous flicker through my stomach, wings beating at my ribs like startled butterflies. The nickname was the kind you earned by being in someone’s hands, someone’s head — not by name, but by shape. By presence. By body.

He tilted my chin slightly, guiding me back into the angle he wanted. The weight of his attention wrapped around my throat like a second robe, too tight to allow words to come out. My skin prickled in places I didn’t know could react to a word or a touch.

So I held still.

He gave a small, almost amused smile, like he found my hesitation endearing and a little entertaining, like a joke only he was in on. Not cruel, more like he was curiously unwrapping a delicate gift. “You’re not used to being looked at like this, are you?”

I bit the inside of my reddened cheeks, making the heat spread down my neck. “No, sir.”

“Mhm,” he just responded, sliding back into his seat with the ease of a man who owned this space and every quiet moment within it. “Don't worry, you will get used to it.”

Being naked in front of a whole art classroom — strangers, students,  and all — felt easier somehow. Easier than being completely bare and vulnerable in front of him — someone who saw every curve and shadow, who could read the secret language of my body better than I ever could.

After a pause that stretched just long enough to make my heart skip, he finally breaks the silence. “May I be honest with you?”

I look over at him from the side of my eye, not wanting to break the pose he just placed me in. He leans back slightly, eyes tracing some invisible line on the paper, not meeting my eyes. “I tried to sketch someone else a couple days ago. But...” He admits. “It physically repulsed me.” The sincerity caught me off guard, not because there was malice in it, but because he was very genuine with what he was saying. His gaze finally met mine, “they don’t ache like you do.”

A sudden rush of pride blooms in my chest. I should feel ashamed — but how could I? Finding satisfaction in being this vulnerably bare should feel like defeat, but instead, it feels like a secret victory. I'm starting to notice not only by his words but also from the way he looks at me, like I’m more than just a body to sketch and that I carry something he can’t put into charcoal but wants to capture anyway.

That fierce pulse in my chest settles. My fingers curl slightly in my lap, trying to contain the fluttering that’s spreading, luring me. I shift slightly on the stool, trying to refocus, but it happens before I can stop it — a subtle change, a flicker of want that tightens everything. The slippery mess of my cunt returns, slowly leaking down. 

Fucking again. It’s maddening how involuntary it is. Like something beneath my skin has decided for me.

He glances up from his sketchpad, then down again, making his pencil pauses mid-line. A corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly. “Second time,” he murmurs, more observation than accusation, like he’s keeping score. “You’re consistent, at least.”

“I— I don’t know what’s happening,” I manage, voice barely above a whisper. “I swear, I’m not usually like this.”

He hums, amused. The sound is all-knowing, that smug ‘sure you aren’t’ threaded beneath it. He leans back just a little in his chair, like giving me space might ease the pulsing — but he doesn’t stop watching. No, his eyes stay locked on mine, as if trying to memorize the exact moment I unravel. 

His gaze just adds to the pressure, making my hands clench faintly at the edge of the stool, not from discomfort — but from the sheer intensity of being seen like this. Of being read so easily. I crossed one leg over the other, breaking the pose just a little, trying and failing to get some friction of relief. But if anything, it made the tension worse — like a spark catching on dry kindling. 

“Go on.”

“What?” I asked, honestly I couldn't hear him over my racing heart and the way I’m clenched, throbbing just from his voice.

“I said go on. Don’t be shy now.”

“Im alri—” I tried protesting, but my hips buckled on the stool’s edge involuntarily. As if my body accepted the permission before my mind. The pressure went straight to my clit, easing its nagging, I couldn’t help but let out a soft curse under my breath. 

My breathing is uneven, shallow in a way that has nothing to do with the pose anymore and everything to do with how I press my now puffy folds on the soaked stool. I kept rocking my hips — the faster i cum, the sooner this humiliation ends. 

I must have been too consumed with the task of chasing my high to not notice how he was already next to me. It was hard to see anything with my glassy eyes, but I could make out his usual relaxed posture. His fingers brushed against the inside of my knee, barely there, and then dragged upward with excruciating patience. His knuckles skimmed the edge of where I ached the most, grounding and teasing all at once. “So fucking desperate,” He leaned in, voice indulgent near my ear. “all this from a couple of words?”

His words made my movement slower. I closed my eyes and pulled my head down, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. His cold hands found the plush of my hips, holding me still before pushing me down on the stool again, as if he’s encouraging me to continue coaxing out my own orgasm.

“Sir, please.” I begged, not sure for what exactly, I couldn’t tell anymore. Most probably begging him to not stop holding me down, making my grinding much rougher. My thoughts blurred with every drag of friction, every embarrassing whine I made. 

He hummed low and approvingly in my ear. The vibration of it — so close, so casual — made my balance falter, and I found myself instinctively leaning forward to him. “Every time you tremble, I get a better line out of you.” he said, his breath fanning my shoulder. “I mean, just look at you,” he taunted, holding my jaw lightly, firm but gentle as he tilted my head toward the window behind us — he really is making me look at myself. 

My reflection stares back at me, unrecognizable: eyes fluttering half-shut, lips parted on a whimper, slick from all the biting. I look dazed, flushed, like I’ve been undone from the inside out — like a girl wrung of every coherent thought, all I can do is take what I can get.

He held my gaze in the reflection, possessive, adoring. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever drawn.” He praised. 

My closed my eyes, It’s too much — the way he looks at me, the rasp of his praise. My head fell back as my spine arched. I came with a whimper, my pussy tightening and pulsing around nothing, trembling with the release he'd so patiently pulled out of me without even really touching me. 

The erratic movement of my hips slowed down as I started riding out my orgasm, thighs shaking against the stool and his arms. He came closer — gentle, but no less intimidating — and brushed the sweat-damp hair from my face. 

“No brushstroke could ever capture this.”

-🖌-

We’ve filled sketchbooks by now, multiple.

Dozens of me — where the paper captures and holds my body undone, time and time again. Some pages catch me mid-sob, eyes lidded, mouth open in soundless moaning. Others show me stretched by his fingers alone, ruined in that sacred, breathtaking way only he understands. Always drawn with that same precision he uses when he touches me, like he discovered me once, and keeps trying to rediscover me.

Sometimes I see them half-finished on his desk. My own face, hips and waist — caught in the middle of the moment, ink bleeding at the edges like I was shaking when he made them. One sketch has my back arched, mouth open like I’m about to say his name. There’s another which was too tender, where my starry eyed face is turned toward him, soft pink cheeks, like I’m waiting for him to say I’m doing well. He sketches like he’s trying to remember me even as he’s looking right at me.

Although… he never lets me look at any sketch for long.

My thighs would ache from being spread open, holding in particular positions he would ask me to do. So much so that all I could focus on is the soft drag of pencil over paper, and his low, thoughtful hum he makes when something pleases him. I try not to writhe away or beg — pretend I don’t ache for more than his touch, than his fingers.

Sometimes, when his admiration sits too heavy on my skin, I can’t help but shy away, tilting my face anywhere but his direction. It's ridiculous how much I crave his attention — this raw, hungry need that shames and excites me all at once. He’d lean close to my ear, making his thumb pressing firmer on my clit, drawing a needy mewl from my lips. “Don’t hide now,” he murmurs, amusement lacing his voice. “I’ve already seen all of you, love.” His words wrap around me like a reminder: I’m already laid bare — in ink, in memory, in him. 

He truly believes that when I come as he sketches, it's like the final stroke that brings his sketches to life. As if without it, his art would be missing the key part — a secret pulse only my pleasure can provide. Like my slick seeps into the paper through his fingers, making each line more vivid, each shadow deeper. “The more I touch you,” he breathed once on my lips as I was so, so close to coming on his digits again for the night, "the better my art gets.” He groaned at the slick glide of his fingers inside me. To him, my release isn’t just an ending — it’s the ignition, the spark that turns charcoal and paper into something electric.

When I step into the room still wrapped in his robe, he’s already at his desk, the soft haze of dusk spilling over his shoulder and catching in the waves of his hair. The golden light glints faintly off the rim of his glasses, just where they’ve slid slightly down the bridge of his nose. 

He doesn’t glance up right away — his focus is on the pencil that flicks once, twice across a page like he’s finishing a thought only his hands understand. “We’re doing portraits today,” he says after a moment, voice threaded with the same calm concentration as his movements. “Come sit in front of me, my darlin’.”

I move toward him, caught in a room that feels like it exists outside time. The only sound is the quiet shuffle of my steps and then, just as I near the desk, the soft slip of paper. That practiced rustle of pages and sketchbooks being closed as soon as I’m close to his sketches — makes my heart jolt in my throat. 

He always does this, every time.

As I lower myself into the chair, he’s already in motion, wordlessly slipping sketchbooks into the wide drawer beneath his desk. One after another, the thick spines disappear with a quiet thud. Not hurried or flustered, but intentional. He lingers on the last closed book as he slides the drawer shut with a muted click. 

With a slow breath, he leans back in his chair and adjusts his glasses with one hand. Then he begins to draw, the paper whispers beneath his hand — the steady hand that had once held me open, drawing sounds from my throat I didn’t know I could make — now it moves with the same careful precision, dragging graphite across the page. Nothing about him is rushed. His gaze lingers between lines, like he’s sketching me in his mind first, committing each detail to memory before it ever reaches the paper.

I hesitate, my toes curling against the legs of my stool. The hem of my robe brushing my thighs, suddenly feeling sheer. And still, I ask  — not because I haven’t wondered before, but because this time the weight of it feels too close to swallow. “When can I see some of the pieces we did together?” I was aiming for casual, but my voice thins around the edges.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he nudged my chin gently slightly to the left until I sat just the way he wanted. His fingers linger at the nape of my neck longer than they need to. A hush hangs between us. He studies so closely that he could draw the shape of my breath if he wanted to. His eyes — unreadable behind the lenses as usual — but no less consuming, rake over me with the quiet accuracy of someone cataloguing something already beloved. 

Then, finally. 

“They’re mine,” he says, like a truth he’s living with. “You gave them to me. You don’t need to see how I see you.” It’s like he’s guarding something too precious to share — something he’s convinced I wouldn’t understand, even if I stared straight at it. 

His voice was poised, but there was something coiled tight beneath it — not menace, no, never that — just a deeply tethered reverence that bordered on obsession. Like he could sketch me a thousand more times and still find something new to fixate on for weeks. “They’re too sacred.” he added, more to the page than to me. He reaches for another stick of charcoal, his fingers smudged for sure. 

He turns his focus back to his paper, completely reabsorbed in the curves and shadows. I shift without thinking, restless under the weight of his attention, making my knee bump his. It’s an accident — I swear — but the sudden contact makes my breath catch. I go still, cheeks warming with embarrassment, expecting at least a glance or a flicker of reaction.

But he doesn’t look up, not even once. As if I’ve always been this close, already in this intimate part of his world — an extension of his art. His pencil glides over the page again, never pausing, but my eyes start to wander lower, past the firm curve of his arm, past the scattered charcoal dust on his clothes. That’s when I see it, the unmistakable bulge outlined beneath his pants, betraying his composure.

Oh, how the tables turn… So much for being the calm one in the room.

Without notice, his strokes falter with a subtle huff of breath through his nose, frustrated. His fingers hesitate at the edge of the page, as if chasing something just out of reach, before he finally sets the charcoal down with a soft clink. “I need another position to see you properly,” he mutters, almost to himself. He looks around, clearly thinking and searching — the charcoal still staining his fingers, his sketch unfinished, something about it is not quite right. His brow furrows behind those glasses, that familiar crease between his brows deepening. 

The idea blooms in me all at once. It takes root before I can question it, and I’m moving before doubt has a chance to catch up.

Slipping from my stool with a slow, careful grace, I sink to the floor between his legs. The room feels different from down here, colder somehow. He blinks down at me before his brow lifts, curious. My hands hover near his inner thighs, not yet daring to touch. “Like this?” I look up at him through my lashes.

He leans back, like he wants to take in every inch of the view I’m offering him. As I settle lower against the cool hardwood floor, the loose edge of his robe slips off one shoulder, baring the curve of my collarbone and the top swell of my chest. “Always so eager,” he said, amusement softening the marvel in his tone. His charcoal fingers flex, resting just at the edge of the sketchbook like he’s unsure whether to keep drawing — or reach for me.

My fingers find the zipper, narrowing the world to the sound of the metal sliding and the soft rustle of fabric under my touch. I slowly freed his cock beneath the waistband of his boxers, revealing his red and strained tip with a bead of pre-cum.

“You’re not married.” he hummed, just an observation once I wrapped my fingers around his length. My eyes flick downwards to see what he sees: bare skin, no claim, no ring. 

I shake my head. “No,” I confirmed, licking his slit before reaching the very top, “No, I'm not.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Good,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb slowly across my lower lip. “I’d hate to do this to someone else’s woman.” He's consumed with the contrast — that dissonance. The softness in my eyes, all doe-eyed and sweet, paired with the kind of simmering shameless hunger I’m no longer trying to hide.

And he drinks it in. Not just the need, but the way it lives alongside the tenderness.

“You didn’t even ask if I had a boyfriend.” I tilted my head, a flicker of mischief slipping through. I didn’t even have a boyfriend — haven’t in ages, honestly — but of course he wouldn’t ask something so juvenile. Not him. 

That’s just how his mind works: serious, precise, polished. Every word feels chosen, every pause earned. He speaks like a man who hasn’t just lived but built something brick by brick — a life shaped by intention, not impulse. He’s older, sure… but never dull. If anything, age has sharpened him and made him timeless, dangerously aware. He learned the weight of silence and uses it like a blade.

My eyes found his as I traced a vein on the side of cock with my tongue, lubricating the rest of his shaft, gradually making my way back to the top. “You’re adorable to think I’d care about a boyfriend.” he chuckled, pushing it past my lips, “he should’ve held on tighter.” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut like he was savoring the feeling of my throat. 

I stroked what I could fit in my mouth with my tongue and the rest I stroked with my hands. I could feel him twitch, guiding every movement with quiet command, his voice praising even as he pushed me to the edge. “Can you take a little more for me, yeah?”

His fingers tangled gently in my hair, ushering me to go deeper and take more of him. His cock hits the back of my throat, muffling my sigh as he’s slightly choking me. “You're doing so well. So good for me.” he breathed out, head tilting backwards just enough for me to catch the rough shadow of stubble tracing his jawline.

As I swirl my tongue around his cock, I feel him tense one last time. His breath ragged as he bucked his hips involuntarily before his hot release spurting into my mouth, coating it in that translucent white color.

I pulled back slightly, just for his swollen tip to come out a small ‘pop’ and make the rest of his cum drool onto my hands. His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth, relishing the sight. “Messy thing,” he teased, fond, like he liked me that way.

His thumb found its way between my lips, calloused and warm, stained faintly with charcoal. “Open.” I parted my lips, curiously, revealing all his release still flowing between my tongue and the roof of my mouth.

He doesn’t speak at first — just watches me, eyes narrowing slightly as if catching onto something he hadn’t seen before. “Hold still, love.” he murmurs, already reaching for his sketchpad. His thumb presses slightly more to ensure it stays open, resting on the edge of my bottom lip.

As soon as the sound of pencils scratching on paper returned, I tried to focus on the usual things — the tension in my shoulders, the steady lift of my chest as I breathe, the faint ache in my spine from holding still. But it’s different this time. The vulnerable parting of my mouth somehow feels more intimate than being bare.

“Open wider for me, sweetheart.” he spoke up, still completely focused on the sketch as he pushed down just a little more. “That’s it.” Each scratch of his pencil feels like a tether, binding me to his gaze even though his eyes are on the page. 

It only took a few minutes before my jaw started to ache — not intense, but enough for my brows to pull together and for tears to brim in my eyes. I’m still motionless but inside, I feel like a wire pulled too tight. He notices immediately. “Does it hurt?”

I nod once, barely, unable to speak.

He reached for a cloth, dabbing gently at my mouth — not in that clinical precision of his. But it's like he was still drawing, still paying attention to details only he could see. He wasn’t cleaning so much as preserving. Unexpectedly, his strong palms brushed my hair back from my temple where sweat had made them cling, before pressing a kiss to my forehead — like he was trying to erase every trace of discomfort.

“Stunning,” he whispered between the strands of my hair. “You did amazing.” 

Was the praise for the pose or for what came after? I didn’t know…

-🖌-

The money was better than anything I’d earned before, that was true.

It meant I could finally step away from the endless cycle of shifts and odd jobs — the ones that blurred together until I couldn’t even remember which uniform I was supposed to wear that day, leaving me bone-tired and half-present in my own life. No more 3 a.m. alarms, no more rushed shifts, no more weird jobs strung together. 

Somehow, he always noticed what I needed before I could name it. 

Before I even knew how to respond to his soundless attentiveness, he said something that caught me completely off guard. “Do you need me to double the pay?” he asked, like he was asking if I wanted more sugar in my tea. The amount he was already giving was more than generous, already absurd by any reasonable standard — but his offering wasn't indulgent but instinctive. As if the idea of me needing anything and not receiving it from him was unacceptable. “It’s not charity,” he said again, in case I dared think it. “It’s peace of mind — mine. Knowing you're taken care of. I don’t want you stretched thin, not when you give me so much already.”

But care, for him, was never just practical. It bled into everything. It wasn’t just money or comfort he gave so freely; it was attention. Obsession, almost. Like every small act — feeding me, paying me, studying me — was part of the same devotion.

His art became our foreplay, oddly enough. His art was more than just lines on paper — it was the slow build, the prelude to everything that followed. Each stroke, each whispered compliment dripped filthier than his palette ever could be. His praise wasn’t just words; it was a tantalizing promise, edged with something deliciously daring.

He takes orgasm after orgasm from me, like a man gathering proof. Proof that I’m real beneath his hands, that he can draw out every twitch, every cry, every flood of heat and still not reach the end of me. Sometimes I think he’s counting them, memorizing the cadence of each one like brushstrokes, mapping out where my body breaks open and how it sounds when I fall apart. He watches every time, like each climax is another layer of truth he gets to carve into his memory. And he never rushes, never stops until he’s sure there’s nothing left in me but the echo of his name.

However, today, he seems off.

Distant in that unreachable way he sometimes gets — but something is chewing at the edge of his thoughts and he won’t let it surface. He hasn't shifted my position once since I arrived, not even the usual ‘tilt your chin’ or ‘relax your wrist’. Hours pass, and still, I stay like this. Muscles beginning to sting, knees threatening to lock. 

But it’s not me he keeps adjusting — it’s the paper. He���s redrawn the same angle again and again, hand moving with that practiced focus but with muted irritation. Erasing, sketching, erasing again. The image just refuses to come through the way he wants it to.

After maybe the fifth paper he had balled up and threw in the trash, he finally spoke. “Let’s take a break,” he dismissed, not quite meeting my eye. Just turned, wiping charcoal off his fingertips with the edge of a towel before leaving the studio. His tone is leveled, but there’s something in it that makes me pause. I wordless came down from the pose he’d held me in for far too long — limbs stretched, hips tilted just so. Everything in me feels overworked and sore, and not in the way I’ve come to crave.

Did I do something wrong?

I gathered his robe where it had slipped from my shoulders and wrapped it tighter, the fabric still warm from the place and smells like his hands. It's quiet when I step out, the only sound is the soft tick of the old clock above the hallway arch, counting time that suddenly felt heavy between these walls. 

I found him in the kitchen, back turned, haloed by the afternoon light. He was still in his crisp button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He’s at the sink, cutting a pear with almost surgical precision. The knife glints under the light. His hands move with that same quiet concentration I’ve seen when he draws, like nothing could rattle him. But I see the tension, like he's trying not to think too loudly.

He slices the fig next, its flesh opening with a soft sound. I swallow, my throat suddenly dry — not sure why I suddenly feel like I’m intruding. The fact that he hasn’t spoken to me in full sentences even when I was modeling for him does nothing to ease my uneasiness.

He glances over his shoulder, finally acknowledging me. His gaze skims me slowly — from bare legs to where my fingers clutch the lapel of his robe — then settles on my face. Whatever he sees there softens something in him, but he just goes back to the fruit. The silence stretches between us, long enough that the ache in my legs dulls, but the ache in my chest blooms louder. I wonder, foolishly, if he’s angry. If I’ve held the pose wrong. If I ruined the drawing. Or worse — if he’s tired of me altogether. 

Then, with terrifying calm, he cuts into another fig, the blade sinking through its skin. “You haven’t eaten all day.” He doesn’t even look at me when he speaks, but it lands like a stone dropped into still water. Slicing the fig into quarters, then halving a pear — slow, exact motions that say this isn’t about fruit. This goes back to care, control.

He dips a sliver in honey, watching it drip in slow glistening beads, then turns back to me. “Eat, sweetheart,” he says softly, sliding the piece toward my lips. His voice is persuasive, but there’s an unmistakable edge of authority beneath it. “You’re no good to me starved.” The fruit is sweet — obscenely so, clinging to my tongue like syrup. My gaze flicks up, and he’s already watching, studying, cataloging every small motion — the way my jaw moves, the flick of my tongue, the hollow of my throat when I swallow. 

He feeds me another slice, slower this time, and lets the pad of his thumb catch the juice spilling at the corner of my mouth. I expect him to wipe it away, but instead, he draws it to his own lips and sucks it clean.  Something about it makes my stomach tighten — not with nerves exactly, but with that impossible, fluttering I only ever seem to get around him. It’s stupid, maybe, the way that the patience, the certainty and the attention short-circuits my thoughts.

“We should get back,” he says in his matter-of-fact voice, and disappears down the hallway. 

I follow a few steps behind, the hem of his robe brushing my calves with each step. Back in the studio, the light has shifted. It falls differently across the floor now — longer shadows, cooler air — night is falling. He’s already moved to his easel, brows knitting with focus again.

Maybe I’d imagined the softness in the kitchen, he’s still frustrated.

I lower myself back onto the stool without being told, tucking the robe from my shoulders, waiting. He starts again, charcoal to his paper.

It only took a few strokes from his pencil before he groaned again, worn with creative restlessness. His hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses askew, fingers pressing in tight like he could squeeze the tension out through his skull. 

“Should I do a different pose?” I finally speak, already starting to shift slightly on the stool. “I can —”

“No, darling,” he interrupts, his voice firm but clearly worn at the edges. “You’re perfect. That’s not the problem.” His hand drags through his hair — something he only does when he’s genuinely stuck — while the other grips sheets of paper from his desk, already slightly crumpled from being handled too much. 

I recognize the layout immediately, it's the printed portfolio guidelines. He showed them to me on his computer a couple times before, but of course, he had to print them out. I can already imagine the justification, something like ‘reading on paper helps me think’. It's unmistakably him. “It's just that this next prompt for the portfolio.” he eventually exhales.

I step down from my own stool, the floor creaks slightly beneath my weight — he doesn’t look up. We’re used to this sort of nearness by now: the kind where bodies hover near each other simply because it’s become habit, not necessarily out of intention. I drift behind him, arms folding over his broad shoulder as I lean in close. His strength is solid beneath my touch. He tilts the paper slightly, sharing the words with me, and a stray lock of his thick hair brushes my cheek, rough against my skin under the soft glow of the studio light.

On the page, bolded in academic print near the top, is the phrase: 

Prompt: the vessel of a Human.  For this series, we invite submissions to consider the human form as a vessel — not just of anatomy, but of memory, desire, silence, or longing. How does the body contain something unseen? How does it fracture, or strain, or carry?

glasses sliding slightly as he rubs at the bridge of his nose again. “It’s vague. How am I supposed to draw a body that’s holding something invisible?” It's like he’s chewing gravel. “Pretentious as hell.” He drops the printed sheet onto his desk with another one of those tired exhales that seem to rise straight from the chest, the kind that settles in artists who live too long with their own ideas. I watch his fingers — ink-stained, smudged with charcoal — tap against the edge of the table.

He’s frustrated, but not at me, that much I know. I glance at the sketch discarded beside him, the faint imprint of his latest attempt already curling at the edges. The prompt might as well be written in another language, whatever it was meant to be, I couldn’t guess. My thoughts however wandered to the way his eyes held me earlier, the way they lingered, the familiar pull that entwines between my ribs and presses against my skin. Something in me clicks in place — a thought, a pulse, a flicker of boldness pulled straight from the burn of his attention.

“You know…” I started, stepping closer, voice low — soft, almost conspiratorial, “I might have an idea.”

He glances at me sideways, not moving much. “Do you, now?” 

I want that feeling again. Need it, even now, as he frowns at his desk, lost in thought. “Maybe it’s not about what’s invisible,” I offer, tip-toeing around the topic. “Maybe it’s about how the body — the vessel, I mean — wants to be filled.” I tilt my head at my last word, letting the suggestion hang in the air. 

His eyes narrow, not with judgment — more like amusement. That knowing gleam again, like he’s caught me in the act of something I haven’t fully admitted yet. That steady gaze that always seemed to reach beneath whatever mask I wore. His voice was like velvet ribbons when he answers, faintly teasing. “You think that’s what they want?”

“I think…” I pause, watching him watch me. “it’s what you want.”

There’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth, something caught between surprise and recognition. He leans back in his chair, slow and unhurried, like he’s giving me space to hear just how loud my own boldness was. “What I want?” he echoed my words as his hand drifted forward — firm, sure — to rest on the back of my thigh, squeezing once on the flesh back there. “You cheeky girl,” his tone was not scolding, but almost fond, like he can’t help but be a little charmed by my nerves. 

“You’re the one who’s stuck.” The words leave me a little too fast, laced with something desperate — not just for his attention, but for him. I reach for him, not bold enough to grab, but needing to touch something. My fingers brush against his forearm, barely grazing the skin where his shirt sleeve is pushed up. My thumb toying with the seam of the fabric there. “Let me help.” I offer again, gentler, needier.

He watches me for a second, eyes dragging over my face like he’s measuring how much I mean it. One brow lifts, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “You just want my attention again.” 

“You haven’t really looked at me all day.” I whispered, not denying what he said, just mustering the best doe eyes I can manage. Letting the need and the plea beneath my words show. It’s ridiculous — selfish, even – for wanting his attention like this, hungry for it in ways I can't soften or disguise.

A low laugh slips from his chest as he brings my knuckles to his lips, letting them linger there for a beat too long. My hand looks small in his, shrunken by the breadth of his fingers. “Mm.” His eyes flick up, half‑lidded, appreciative. “You really are a work of art.” 

This is it. This is when he finally gives in, the green light I’ve been waiting for. But then he tilts his head toward the waiting stool for me. “Go sit,” he murmured — kind, yet edged with quiet authority. “And stay still this time.” The instruction isn’t loud, but it lands with the weight of a command meant to be obeyed.

Fine, then. 

Climbing back onto the stool, I made a point to stretch long, deliberately — letting my knees fall open just a little wider than I know he needs. Just enough to tempt, to test the edge of his patience. A flicker of a suggestion, if you might. I don’t say anything, and I don’t need to. The mellow between my legs has never been louder, but I keep still — except for the way I subtly tilt my hips out of frame, angle my shoulders wrong, let one hand fall too casually at my side. Just enough to skew the lines. Just enough to make him notice. 

I know the frame he’s trying to build, the symmetry he chases with every stroke of charcoal — and I know I’m breaking it.

The room is apparent and thick with his focus, but I feel the intensity of it drift when he realizes. He didn't say anything yet. Maybe he’s giving me a chance to correct myself, or maybe he’s waiting to see how far I’ll push. I keep my expression sweet, unbothered — like I’m simply doing my best to follow directions. But inside, I already know exactly how he likes me, I’ve been posing for him too long not to. I want to see if he’ll touch me. 

“Change positions,” his voice firm, already drawing again.

I blink innocently. “Wait — like this?” I shifted the wrong way again, chin tilted, eyes wide. “Sorry… I keep forgetting how you want me.” im putting up an act, drawing it out like a performance. I kept delaying, pretending that I’m guessing, fumbling with my limbs like it was my first time. Each second stretched. 

Until, at last, I heard it — that familiar deep inhale-exhale. Then the soft scrape of the stool followed as he stepped out from behind the easel, the sound loud in the muffled studio. I heard his footsteps, slow and unrelenting — like he had all the time in the world to correct me. There’s something simmering behind his gaze as it drags over me, more like he’s entertaining a game he already knows the outcome of. 

His hands braces against the back of my stool — caging me to him. Whether it’s to secure the seat or secure himself, I can’t tell. His eyes radiated controlled heat and measured restraint, but it smolders all the same. “Enough,” his tone was clipped, but solid with something between frustration and his own impulse. “You’re wasting time.”

His hands slide to my hips, fingers pressing into the soft plush of my skin. He adjusts me with the surety of someone who never doubts where he wants me, and doesn't bother to ask for permission because he already has it. I let him guide me, in fact, I melt into the correction that I’ve been waiting for all day.

I hummed back, a poor mask for the want simmering just beneath the surface. But this wasn’t what I wanted, not really. It barely scratched the itch. My fingers strayed upward, finding the open collar of his shirt. The top buttons were already undone, exposing the slope of his chest — warm, solid, and maddeningly inviting. I traced the edge of the fabric there this time, fingertips ghosting over his skin. “I tried,” I purred, not wanting to let go of the act. “You didn't make it easy.” I added, the softest hint of accusation curling in my tone —  a gentle push, waiting for him to finally lose control.

Still, he didn’t bite.

“What’s gotten into you tonight, hm?” he asked, voice like steel draped in silk  — gentle seemingly, but with that unmistakable pull of control underneath. He was soft, teasing and commanding all at once — it was dizzying to say the least. “Why won’t you let me work?” he reckoned, almost like he was balancing on the edge of restraint, and I was the one daring him to tip.

“Why won’t you fuck me?” I asked back instead, the words slipped out before I could temper them, making him still. The air thickened as I searched his face — he’s unbearably handsome in that incantatory way he always is, lit faintly by the gold wash of studio light. I hate how calm he looks while I’m coming undone. My voice softened further. “I mean really fuck me.” I continued, reasoning my behavior. “You’ve made me come with your fingers. With your mouth. Over and over…” I shake your head, just slightly. “But never… properly. Never all the way.”

He doesn’t answer right away, just observes me. His silence wasn’t cruel, but it made me feel bare. Small, like every inch of my wanting had been laid out for him to examine.

“You think I haven’t been planning to?” There was something dangerous in the discrete of it, something that made my thighs press together instinctively.

“Then stop treating me like I’m breakable,” I murmured back, lifting my chin to some degree. I tried to be brave for the slow burn curling in my core that had long since outgrown teasing touches and half-finished thoughts. He narrowed his eyes on me, he was weighing restraint against desire and realizing he didn’t have much left. 

“If I fucked you like I want to,” he said finally, voice dropping into something more intimate, “you wouldn’t be able to pose tomorrow.”

God, the way it landed made me feel like I was already on my knees. My breath hitched as I reached for his hand, guiding it down, until his fingers rested against my soaked folds. I didn’t say much — just, “sir, please…” — breathless, like the word itself might convince him. A low groan rumbled from his chest as he felt how wet I was. “I need you.” I whined, raw with want. 

When two of his fingers entered me, It was embarrassing how fast I clenched around them, desperate. “Goodness.” he grumbled out, like he couldn’t hold it in, sounding too fond. My movements were syrup-slow at first, needy, chasing every curl of his fingers. I clutched at his wrist, seeking stability and riding the rhythm he gave me. “That’s it, baby. Take your time.” he cooed, kissing the pulse point just beneath my jaw, like he could feel my heart racing, then kissing down to my shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His other hand held my hip, steadying me while I took what I needed — and I needed all of him. Every curl of his fingers. Every breath against my neck. Every inch. “Mmh – shit. Sir?” I whimpered out, rocking down again and again until I couldn't tell where I ended and he began. 

“Yeah, pretty? What is it?” he crooned, laced with indulgent patience. His fingers brushed gently along my temple, tucking loose strands behind my ear. “Tell me,” he coaxed again, eyes never leaving mine. “What do you need?”

When I opened my mouth to speak, but only a gasp left me when his palm pressed against my clit just right — intentional, smug — shushing me. My voice faltered in my throat, I bit down on the sound trying to claw its way out of me. I refuse to give him satisfaction today. Yet my body betrays me, hips twitching under his palm, but I keep my gaze steady, lips parted but holding firm. I won’t let him have it.

Not yet.

“Need more — need all of you...” I was able to choke out over the obscene sound of him knuckle-deep, dragging whimpers from me with every thrust. “Hhnn–fuck.” I moaned out now that I finally let myself speak. It came out trembling, wrecked.

“Mhhh,” he hummed near my ear, as if thinking, weighing his options. This fucking man. “Patience, precious. I’ve waited longer for things worth less.”

“I’ll be good — just… please.” The words slip out, barely holding their shape. 

He chuckles low, a sound that curls down my spine. “You’re usually so quiet,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles against my cheek like he’s savoring the sight of me coming undone. “Didn’t know you could beg so pretty, darlin’.”

I open my mouth to say something — a smart remark, another plea, anything — but it dies on my tongue the second his fingers curl just right again. My breath stutters. The heat in my lower belly loops and pools tighter, spreading out like molten sugar.

His gaze flicks up, catching mine — knowing. “Gonna come, baby?” he asked, voice so damn calm, like he’s not the one driving me toward the edge. I just nod, letting my forehead find his shoulder, pressing there like I’m seeking shelter, grounding myself in the steadiness of him. 

He hums like he’s pleased, like he’s been expecting it. Of course he has. He is always conscious. “Just like that. Show me how bad you need it.” 

And so I do — the orgasm unspools from deep inside me like a string pulled too tight finally snapping. My back arched instinctively, pressing closer against him. Muscles fluttering around his digits one last time as a breathless mewl breaks from my lips.

He withdraws slowly, savoring every inch as he pulls free. Without breaking eye contact, his cum-slicked fingers glide over my cheek, tracing a line — as if signing a masterpiece only he could create. A mischievous smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve always wanted to experiment with different mediums.”

I pressed on, persistent, even though my breath was still raging from the last wave of pleasure crashing through me. “I can keep going.” One hand moved with purpose — palming the hard line of his bulge in a way that balanced innocence with unmistakable hunger. My other hand traced a slow, teasing path up his veiny arm. “I want to keep going.” I corrected myself.

He sighed, rich with a mix of admiration and exasperation, finally cracking open his usual calm. “You are relentless, my love. You know that?” Without another word, he dipped forward, arms curling around my waist with a strength that both anchored and claimed me. In one smooth motion, he lifted me off my feet, the weightlessness shocking yet exhilarating.

I’m still floating somewhere between breathless and dizzy, every nerve ending alive and hypersensitive. The world feels soft and distant, and I barely register where he’s taking me. It’s like he’s both leading me forward and cherishing me — a paradox of power and tenderness that makes my head spin.

He sets me down. I realize I’m face down on the couch, my ass raised high, exposed. The position is vulnerable — no — humiliating with how i'm still pulsing, clenching around nothing and it's all for his viewing pleasure.

“Now tell me, honey…” He drags his fingers down my slit, making a slow path that makes me flinch with the echo of my last climax.

I don't hesitate, “anything. God, I will tell you anything." I breathed out a little too quickly, like the need has taken over where words should be. I push my ass back against his hand, reaching for more. 

He tsked under his breath — not quite a reprimand, more like adoration wrapped in warning. “Easy, pretty.” His hand rests heavy on my lower back, pushing me back to my place. “Look at you,” he continued his little show, collecting whatever cum and liquid that is dripping between my thighs now, “all soaked and still asking so sweetly.”

My cheek stayed pressed to the couch cushion, breath catching in my throat. “You said you’d take care of me,” I said, not accusing, but trembling. “Then do it.”

In one fluid movement, he shifts me — manhandles me with assured hands until I’m on my back, open to him. The strength in his touch is unmistakable, but it holds no cruelty. “Greedy, greedy girl,” he muttered as his charcoal stained fingers from the hours of half-finished sketches trail down the outside of my leg, leaving a ghost of heat in their wake. When he reaches my thighs, his thumbs press gently into the plush to pull them apart. “Then I gotta keep my promise, no?” he asked, rhetorically, now rocking his cock on my slit to lubricate himself. 

I panted as I felt his swollen tip push in, “There,” he threaded through my entrance, my pussy wrapping to cradle him, “Is this what you needed, sweetheart?” He eased into me slowly, every inch met with a breathless shudder from me. I nodded weakly, completely forgetting the sheer size of him. It stretches with a burn, intoxicating nonetheless. “Fuck… you’re tighter than I ever imagined.”

His thickness expands my limits, “mmh, more.” I mewled, my fingernails dragging at his arm, ensuring marks soon. He leaned down, chuckling before kissing neck, “No need to rush. I want you to feel all of me.” His lips went down to the valley of my breasts, the last kiss being there. “But I won't lie, you make it so hard to take my time.” He slid fully inside with a groan, buried deep, hips grinding into me like he couldn’t get close enough. My cunt clenched as he filled me whole.

His thrusts that were slow in the beginning have picked up the pace, each push against my walls was uninterrupted, making me feel unbelievably stuffed. “That’s my girl. You’re taking me so beautifully.” he praised, his eyes not leaving the view of my pussy swallowing each one of his plunges. 

I could feel his hands gently lift my legs, one by one, before he settled them carefully on his shoulder. The shift is effortless from his part, but it was a new angle that opened me up, reaching new places. “Oh my God—” I gasped, fingers clutching at my thighs, utterly lost on where to place my hands, my body trembling with a mix of surprise and overindulgence. 

I felt the heat of his quiet laugh brush against my ankle, a teasing warmth that sent a ripple up my spine. “Flattering… but wrong,” he murmured, voice low and playful. “You really think he listens to you more than I do?” His words hung in the air, I tried responding but it came out as a whimper. 

Then he dropped my legs gently near his hips just to then lean in so close his breath ghosted against my ear. “But let me tell you something, darling — if God saw you like I do, He’d set the sky ablaze out of pure jealousy.” His words made me light-headed, my vision unfocused with glossy eyes. My thoughts were a blur — scrambled, burning, and sweet — like my mind couldn’t keep up with the pleasure flooding through me. 

“Too much?” he teased with a smile, savoring the way the words make me squirm. I only managed a small shake of my head, lips parted, breath hitching — I might be overwhelmed, but unwilling to stop. “Mmm,” he hummed as he pushed in my poor cunt even more, the pressure was beyond belief. “My sweet girl… Always taking everything I give you. Every last drop.”

“Sir—” It comes out more like a moan than a word, high and breathless, trembling with the edges of my second climax. His pace doesn't falter. “Yes, love?” he answers, gentle and vexingly composed, just focused, possessive.

I gasped as my toes curled, head falling back to the cushion of the couch. “Come in me.” I plead, cracking open around the words — straight from my heart, all surrender. His low laugh rumbles through all the way to my pussy, there is some surprise in his tone. 

“Full of surprises tonight, aren’t you?” The continued stretch from him made my gummy walls cling tighter with every push. “Yeah, full – you sure are.” He muttered to himself more than anything, pussydrunk for sure. 

He drove into me in one slow, devastating thrust, stealing the breath from my lungs. “You feel how deep I am?” He said, his tip touching my cervix. There was an undeniable bump on my lower belly, it being so visible made it easy for him to push on it, making me squeeze him involuntarily even further. “Come on it, baby. Come for me.”

His forehead pressed against mine, breaths ragged and warm between us. I could feel everything — every trembling inch of his cock in me, every pulse of heat. His hand found mine, fingers lacing like he was grounding me, or maybe grounding himself. "Look at me," he commanded for the last time tonight, voice thick with something that sounded like awe. I did. And I swear — for a second — I forgot the room around us, the tension from earlier, even my own name.

I squeezed his hands as his hips stuttered when he came deep, thick creamy white ropes filling me so utterly I thought I’d break. It all mixed with my own release, the squelching sound between our skin is clear as day. My back arched, mouth parted in something between a gasp and a cry, and he caught it with a kiss, swallowing the sound like it was all meant for him.

“So fucking perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.” He whispered, pressing his lips to my temple. “You’re impossible to stop drawing.” his hand finds mine, fingers curling softly around my wrist. My chest raises and falls, legs shaky, still flushed and sensitive where he claimed me — I am still freshly fucked. His cum poured out of me in relentless spurts, wet and sticky, soaking my skin and the couch beneath me. “My favorite subject.” Slowly, reverently, he lifts my hand to his lips. His mouth is warm and gentle, brushing a kiss across my knuckles, trailing soft sparks over my skin.

“You’re more than any prompt could ever ask.”

[sulfadimethoxine]

They will treasure it and fight over who gets to keep it in their room

Surprise! They wanted to bring you this pumpkin and when I say they bring you I mean sun makes a cute pose as moon carries all the weight

Awww! Thanks for the pumpkin! I am sending Sun and Moon back to you with something we quickly put together over here.

Hopefully Sun will be a little more helpful on the return trip.

[usersanon]

Please be aware of the user @/saintsugu also known as Ezra.

Past pseudonyms include (but are not limited to: @/aces_high

I never thought that I would have to create a post like this. In my near 12 years on the internet, I never thought I would have to write down the words I am about to type, especially about a fellow fanfic creator, one I used to enjoy before I found out about the type of person he really is. I apologise for the long post, however I want to make sure I am as thorough as possible so I can bring this person to justice.

Before opening the read more/ continuing with this post, please read the trigger warnings. This will deal with heavy topics, ones that make me sick to my stomach. I apologise for all of the censoring in this post as well.

TW: P*DOPHILIA, UNDER*GE, SEXUALIZATION OF EDS AND SH

I would just like to start off by saying how difficult this post is for me to write. I have had to take multiple breaks while typing this out. I have felt disgusted since I first saw the posts on his twitter. Like I need to take a shower and scrub myself clean, however, at the same time I feel like I cannot sit idly by while Ezra still has a platform.

The posts I have seen on his twitter, what he actively endorses is just disgusting and predatory in nature. I have done my best to censor them so as to not continue the spread of such material. As of the time of this post, his twitter is still public.

HIS TWITTER (X) IS CURRENTLY UNDER THE NAME @/ezr_ace

First, I’ll give evidence I have to prove that the twitter account stated above is in fact his. I was wary at first as well, however, I believe this evidence in fact proves that beyond reasonable doubt that the account is his.

The obvious reasoning is as follows: Ezra goes by the pseudonym Ezra currently, and has gone by the pseudonym Ace in the past. Both the twitter account and his tumblr state that he is 21. Both twitter and tumblr themes are the same in nature, featuring manga panels of Suguru edited in the same way.

If you’re familiar with Ezra at all, you would know that they are very close with another user, Flora, also known as @/fyogasm. Previously known as @/pussydrunkfyodor on tumblr. When going through the followers of this twitter account, I noticed someone by the name of Flora following him (one of about 34 followers), with the user @/floratumblr. This account had their tumblr linked in the bio of the profile, and it led straight to Flora’s tumblr. Screen recording is posted below:

UPDATE: since Ezra has been called out, Flora has unfollowed Ezra’s Twitter as well as deleted her account. I can only assume it is to try and dodge the backlash of being associated with him. Here are screenshots proving they are moots/ interacting with each other.

Note: I do not know what this means for the content of Flora’s character. All I can say for certain is that she is close friends with him (to the point they have each others numbers), and that she follows his Twitter. I did not dive deep into her Twitter before she deleted it. But I can say that I do believe she knew the content he was posting about, otherwise she wouldn’t have deleted her Twitter the second he was called out while remaining mutuals with him on tumblr.

UPDATE 1/19/24 1:50 pm: Since creating this post, Flora has reached out and stated that they have broken all contact with Ezra. They state that they are not frequently on twitter, and was completely unaware of the type of content he was posting on the account. They state that the content found on the account has made them feel sick and that they are no longer friends anymore.

Back to the main point, this only adds to the similarities listed above. A close mutual that he has been seen actively talking to on his tumblr also follows him on twitter, endorsing his behavior. This alone was too much for me to ignore. However, one final factor came into play that solidifies that user ezr_ace and user saintsugu are the same Ezra.

He not only posted to his tumblr about hateful anon messages, but also his twitter at the same time. Right after the messages were sent, he tweeted the following, as well as posted the following messages on his tumblr. Screenshots with time stamps posted below:

This for me, confirms that the two accounts are the same. There are simply too many coincidences for me to ignore. I feel that there is no argument about the validity of the accounts, as there are just too many similarities to ignore. Now, I can delve into what the post is really about. The content of the Twitter account.

P*DOPHILLIC ACTIONS AND UNDRE*GE CONTENT.

To put it simply, I was horrified when I first opened the profile to be greeted with Shotacon artwork. Full on artwork of an adult Toji a*saulting a child Gojo. In this artwork, Gojo looks as if he can be no older than 10. Most of the image is censored for obvious reasons, however, part of the screenshot appears in the video above as well. Proving that it cannot have been doctored in any way.

As you can see, the post is tagged with tw sh*ta. For anyone unaware, the definition of Sh*ta is as follows: “Sh*ta is a term used in manga and anime fandoms to indicate sex involving an under*ge boy.” (Fanlore.org) Aka, CP.

It is disgusting to see someone who I once enjoyed, once trusted, interact with literal cp. Drawing or not, the effect of it is still massive. Viewing children (ANYONE UNDER*GE) in a sexual nature is harmful to everyone. It breaches past dark content into something horrible. Something dangerous.

I felt sick seeing someone be as brazen as to repost a picture of a child being a*saulted. To get off on it. It is p*dophilic. That is the only way it can be put.

Further on this, he has written smut of, in his words, “not necessarily under*ge” Suguru in highschool. There is a whole thread on it on his profile, however, I will not be showing it here. The screenshot below describes the nature of the whole post from his own words.

When I first read “not necessarily under*ge”, my first and only question was literally, what the fuck does that mean? Either he is under*ge or not. There is not some fuzzy grey area coating the world between adults and children.

But sure, give him the benefit of the doubt. That does not excuse him liking multiple posts tagged with under*ge content. The most recent being less than an hour ago. Posts censored to the best of my ability below.

These posts all point to the same thing. The disgusting, undeniable truth that this man is attracted to under*ge content. Content depicting minors in sexual scenarios. Content that no member of society should ever consume. He is a p*dophile. For viewing this content of his own accord. For liking it, for reblogging it. For creating it on his own. He is a disgusting person.

FOLLOWING MINORS.

Him interacting with content like that above, consuming it in any capacity at all makes him unsafe to be around. For anyone. Especially minors.

Even though his blog is 18+, even though he preaches that minors should stay away from his blog. He still found himself following a 16 year old. Becoming mutuals with them. The fact this person is 16 is clearly displayed on their blog as well (in their pinned post).

Screenshots shown below. The individual’s user is censored out as, once again, they are a minor and I don’t feel they should have to be wrapped up in this mess.

Once again, Ezra is someone who preaches about minors staying out of adult spaces. Multiple times he has complained on his blog about minors following him and having to block them. You would think he does the same and would be more careful about curating his online spaces, however it he fails to do that.

I don’t believe this can be boiled down to a simple case of missing the age in their bio— this user has their age in their pinned post, as well as their about me. Along with the sexualisation of minors prevalent on his Twitter, it makes me extremely uncomfortable to know that he is following a minor in any capacity. I’m sure it would make anyone.

SEXUALIZING EDS AND SH.

To end the laundry list of posts on his twitter, we have him writing smut glorifying eds, as well as liking posts depicting sh in a sexual light. As always, screenshots are shown below, censored to the best of my ability.

In the post listed above, Suguru is described in a way that is hard to stomach. While it is not nearly as bad as everything else stated above, I feel it is still necessary to include, especially because in this pairing he has often described and implied Suguru to be a minor. There is a line and he has crossed it several times, this is just another example of such. Serving as the cherry on top to further demonstrate his mindset.

Dark content and discussion of these subjects in fiction are not the problem. The disturbing part of this is that Ezra often uses these tropes within his min*r/adult sexual fantasies, and when paired with the sh*ta and under*ge content, leaves a very poor taste in the mouth. It comes across as not only a gross f*tishization, but a gross f*tishization of taking advantage of a minor that way.

A DISCUSSION ON THE LIMITS OF DARK CONTENT.

In this section, I feel that it is important to touch on how dark content plays into all of this. I’d like to expressly state that this is NOT a condemnation of dark content or its consumption.

Dark fiction and dark content are a fine line. It’s a fantastic tool for exploring taboos and emotions or experiences that aren’t often talked about openly. DC creates what is essentially a safe space for exploring things that are not typically done or seen in the real world, with the knowledge that writing or engaging with it does not necessarily mean condoning it. That being said, this callout post is NOT about being anti-dc. Dark content is a literary or artistic tool. Keeping all of this in mind, to actively engage with sh*ta content in which a character is depicted sexually not only as a minor, but as a child, and to be sexually aroused by that image is the definition of p*dophilia. Writing or drawing children and engaging with that content in a sexual capacity is p*dophilia and at the very least, has p*dophilic tendencies. This is not dark content, this is p*dophilia.

It is one thing to write or create dark fiction between adults for the purpose of gratification or exploration of social dynamics and it is entirely another to engage with art of a child engaging in sexual acts with an adult for (seemingly) the intent purpose of sexual gratification. Everyone draws their own line, but it is also important to acknowledge that there are some depictions of taboo subjects that border (if not fully step-into) harmful, p*dophilic content that perpetuates behavior and mental tendencies that truly are dangerous.

To engage with a drawing of a child and a full grown adult in sexual acts for the purpose of sexual gratification is incredibly fucked up. And the fact that minor and adult p*rnography are not just common, but dominating Ezra's twitter page, should be an absolute red flag. It’s okay to acknowledge that dark content is a medium for fiction while also acknowledging that there are some ways of engaging with it that are harmful, especially when it is so glaringly obvious that the content is between a child and an adult (the art I am talking about specifically really is a child. I don’t urge anyone to look at it, but it is gojo depicted as a child of maybe 8 - 10 years old. I’m not using the term child as an umbrella term for minors here).

The problem, stated very plainly, is that the post/s he is engaging with are sexual depictions of a child with the purpose of sexual gratification. That’s the point here. It’s not the dark content, but rather that he is retweeting posts depicting a child of about 8-10 engaged in sexual acts and created for the purpose of sexual gratification.

Once again, this is not a condemnation of dark content. Dark content can be used in so many valuable ways— facing trauma, dealing with taboo subjects, exploring the literary world in a safe and healthy way. As someone who actively consumes dark content, I will be the first to tell you this. However there should always be limits to the types of content produced. Gaining any kind of gratification from looking at a child being a*saulted is disgusting. It is p*dophillic. Especially when he actively engages with minors on his platform.

This is not a conversation of morals— which side is right and wrong. But rather a conversation about the safety of children. This is not a conversation about ageing up as that is not what he is doing. The characters being depicted here are not being aged up, rather are being depicted as minors, or literal children being used for the sexual gratification of adults.

The issue here is a p*dophile. Not dark content. Not anything else.

CONCLUSION.

I’ll be honest, post was extremely hard for me to create. Discovering that someone I once thought was close to me is this kind of person feels disgusting and abhorrent. I honestly wish I never had the displeasure of meeting them in the first place.

Hopefully, by the end of this post you are able to see the kind of person Ezra really is. I could not be silent about this. I knew that the moment all I found all of this out. This post has been very difficult for me to write, but I hope by the end of it some good will come. Some people will be able to avoid interacting with this man.

I believe Ezra needs professional help, and truly hope that he is able to get it some day soon.

Please be careful with who you interact with on the Internet. Adults and minors alike, there are predators everywhere. Please try your best to stay safe in your own online spaces. All of the love in my heart goes out to anyone who has survived child expl*itation. I hope for nothing but the best for you in the future.

Thank you all for taking the time to read this post. I know it is long and triggering for most people. I hope you all have wonderful days and try your best to take care of yourself.

Listed below are some important numbers I would like to bring awareness to before this post is over.

National Child Ab*se Hotline (USA): 1-800-422-4453

National Center for Missing and Exploited Children (USA): 1-800-843-5678

The National Sexual A*sault Hotline (USA): 1-800-656-4673

Childline (UK): 0800-1111

International Child Helpline: 116-111

TLDR: Ezra has a Twitter account where he retweeted artwork of a child gojo being a*saulted by an adult toji. He liked as well as created posts depicting under*ge characters (literally tagged with ‘under*ge’). All while being mutuals with a 16 year old on tumblr.

Tags used to try and spread awareness. I tried to mostly include fandoms that he is in.

UPDATE: lmfao, he has since deleted the retweet of sh*ta gojo after he was called out. Literally proving that it was him.

[aethelwyneleigh27]

Husband!Simon "Ghost" Riley with a Pregnant!Wife!Reader

Headcanons and Scenarios

Am I back with baby fever? I mean yeah but this is less baby fever and more if Husband!Simon in honor of my first ever post that reached 1k likes in 4 days. Also you guys know Ghostie by now right? @connorsui mentioned that she wonders how Ghost and the reader met, guess who's writing about that?

Edit: SHIT, THIS POST HAS BEEN UP FOR SO LONG AND I FORGOT TO ADD CREDIT, I'M SO SORRY. The render above is by @ave661

Taglist: @puff0o0 @simp4konig @blingblong55 @azereus @rustic-guitar-notes @shadofireshinobi @anonymuslydumb @skeletalgoats @icarustypicalfall @ghosts-cyphera @cutenote @connorsui @capuccino192 @theredurzikdjinn @miss-gms-and-the-rotten-womb

Also @puff0o0, my most favorite moot has helped me come up with how they met, UGH ILYYY <333

My CoD Masterlist <3

Warnings/Disclaimers: Reader is pregnant, sick!Reader, mentions of vomiting (not detailed), pain of birth and all the other pregnancy warnings out there. (Extreme fluff)

❥ Husband!Simon who had no fucking clue how to react when you first told him you got pregnant, I mean he knew at some point it would happen but not this soon?!

❥ Husband!Simon who in your early stages of pregnancy was the one holding your hair up while you empty the contents of your stomach on the toilet most mornings. He was the one who had a warm hand gently rubbing up and down your back while mumbling light encouragements, careful not to agitate you from the sickening feeling.

❥ Husband!Simon who was gradually getting the hang of things, getting clingier the further into the pregnancy. Once the baby bump comes in, bye bye personal space, Dad!Simon needs to have his hand on the bump no less than 10 times a day.

❥ Husband!Simon who is a sucker for kissing the baby bump, especially your stretch marks. He will be more gentle if you ask him to because your ticklish, but don't expect none of his stuble.

❥ Husband!Simon whose breath hitches when you took his large calloused hand onto your baby bump and felt movement, he had to blink twice up at you and look down again. Only now it was two hands holding the bump, waiting for more kicks.

❥ Husband!Simon who lets you do all the shopping with baby stuff because he has no idea what looks cute, every once in a while showing you something he thinks looks good and asks for your approval.

❥ Husband!Simon who looks back up at you in concern as he hears you whimper, as much as he wants more movement and feel the little one kick, you were in pain and uncomfortable. Some soothing words might help..?

You let out a soft whimper as you felt the baby kick again, god did she have her father's strength..

Simon still had his warm and heavy hand on the bump, feeling the little one's movement.

"Pumpkin.. give your momma a rest, she needs some sleep" Simon sleepily mutters. Just like that the movement stops.

"I swear she only ever listens to your voice, it's obvious that she's already a daddy's girl"

❥ Husband!Simon who is more than obsessed with the baby bump, albeit his ear over the bump to hear the baby, big calloused hands always have to be some place on it. You'll just find your husband clinging onto your bump, his head on your chest while his arms are wrapped around the loves of his life.

❥ Husband!Simon who was far more panicked than you were during the birth, he literally cannot even pay attention to the pain of your hand almost breaking his from the gripping because his heart is pounding in his chest while you push out the baby.

❥ Husband!Dad!Simon who was trembling the moment you forced him to open up his arms so he could hold the baby. She's so tiny, her whole body almost fits in just one of his hands. The moment he held her, she stopped wailing, trying so hard to open her little eyes.

❥ Husband!Dad!Simon couldn't help but pull you up into his arms too because you couldn't move up from exhaustion. Your hand on the little one's body that was cradled by her dad, his other arm wrapped around your shoulders while he kissed your sweaty forehead, singing praises to you about how thankful he is that you brought life to your little girl together.

A/n: Hi guys, just to start off. I haven't been in a good space for a while now, I don't think I'm in the right headspace either. Not to say I'm taking a break, fuck no, I'd lose all my relevance if I did and I also think that taking a break from this won't be good for me or you guys because I don't want history to repeat itself.

If you guys don't know yet, I've been on the break in 2020 and didn't officially start writing again till 2023, finally entering a different fandom. I feel like taking a break would result into this whole thing again and I can't go through that all over again. I love writing so much and it hurt when I lost all my relevance on Wattpad.

My personal life outside of Tumblr is weird to explain, see things haven't been good regarding my situation with a friend. Neither do I feel good in school, everything in that place just sucks except for two other closer friends. There's still the dreadful 3 weeks left till Christmas vacation. Not only that but I get anxiety over so many things that may be little to most of you.

A mutual of mine so graciously has given me ideas for the next Ghostie posts, I love them, it's accurate and it's great and all however some part of me makes me feel so insignificant. Like why didn't I think of that? Why am I even writing if I'm just relying on other people's ideas? This is no shade to that mutual, thank you so much, hell I loved everything they told me. It's just always my anxiety and insecurities getting the better of me.

Apologies for the length of this. I'm quite busy and my clumsy fingers accidentally published something again 😭Anyway, more Ghostie content is on it's way :))

[solxamber]

Hi sol!!! My first request!!! :333

Yayy I'm happy we're moots <33 be sure to always stay healthy, drink water and stuff and have a good day/night/afternoon/evening :)

Anywaysss here's my request! (This is Romantic btw 😝)

Deuce, Riddle, Ace, Epel with a reader (I say reader, just as a gender neutral term lol, also can the reader be in Pomefiore? :3) who is like a perfect role model for people— They're smart, kind and always understanding, mature. But what made them like the reader even more is that: even while they are all the aspects of a perfect model student; at the same time, they aren't like that sometimes.

They are understanding to people and responsible with their academics, but they also have a mischievous side— they can be a bit snarky and reckless in certain situations, they can effortlessly balance out their responsibility in school with their mischievousness (which sort of made them fall for the reader even more, bc they sound so cool and shi)

If the reader was with Ace, Epel. They'll show a more responsible and mature approach, they aren't entirely strict (unlike both of their housewardens) but will always tell them if they're doing something that would get them in trouble. But they do have slight instances where they are a bit out of character.. Like how the reader climbed a whole ass tree in their Pomefiore uniform to grab an item that was stuck on the tree (even if they could just grab it with magic) and gave it back

But on the other hand, If they were with Riddle, Deuce— I guess you could say that they can be responsible and mature, but with a more visible hint of mischief. They annoy Riddle for fun, teasing Deuce if he didn't know something that was pretty obvious already (they apologize, of course). Like how they annoyed Riddle so bad that they got collared, but came back with a strawberry tart that was decorated with red and white roses or how they slightly chuckle when Deuce is confused...

LIKE.. DO YOU GET MY VISION PELAKSEEEL ☹️☹️☹️😭😭😭 PLEASE GET IT... I KNOW MY ASK IS A BIT LING BUT THIS IS EATING MY BRAIN ☹️☹️

Deuce, Riddle, Ace, Epel with a Pomefiore! reader

omg hi 🫶🫶 I think I saw the vision but let me know if you wanted something different!

Deuce Spade

Deuce had always admired how perfect you seemed—a Pomefiore student, embodying grace, responsibility, and intelligence. It was hard not to look up to you. You were someone who aced all your tests, helped classmates without a second thought, and stayed out of trouble. Or so he thought.

It wasn’t until you found him trying to fix an overgrown potion plant that things started to shift. Deuce, sweating buckets, was yanking at the roots of the plant, clearly struggling. “I don’t get it! How did this thing grow so fast? It’s like a magic beanstalk on steroids!”

You watched him for a moment, amused. “Deuce, you’re pulling at the wrong part. You need to loosen the soil around the roots first. Want some help?”

Deuce looked up, grateful, only to realize you weren’t offering your help with magic. Instead, you were already on your hands and knees, digging into the soil. The sight of a Pomefiore student willingly getting dirt under their perfectly manicured nails had him wide-eyed. He was about to say something when you added, “Come on, get in here, or we’ll be stuck dealing with this all day.”

It wasn’t just your willingness to get dirty that caught him off guard. It was your mischievousness. When he finally asked you about it, you just smiled, saying, “Being perfect is boring, Deuce. Sometimes, you’ve got to do things the fun way. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

And just like that, you made him laugh, breaking through his seriousness. You’d joke with him when he messed up, but never in a mean way. “Wow, Deuce, did you really forget to add the salamander tail? That’s like the second step of the potion.” And when he’d look at you in frustration, you’d quickly add, “I’m just teasing. Here, let’s fix it.”

He even started looking forward to your teasing. It wasn’t mocking—it was gentle, almost affectionate, and when you laughed, he found himself laughing too. One day, after a particularly exhausting lecture, you came up to him with a sly grin. “So, Deuce, how does it feel to know the square root of 144? Life-changing, right?”

He groaned but couldn’t help smiling. “Shut up…”

But the real turning point was when you climbed a tree in your pristine Pomefiore uniform. You were helping Deuce and Ace find something stuck in a tree—some stupid ball or something—and instead of using magic, you hauled yourself up the trunk like it was nothing. Deuce gawked, his brain short-circuiting as he watched you hop from branch to branch.

“You know you could’ve just… used magic, right?” he asked when you finally hopped back down, tossing the ball to Ace.

You shrugged, “Where’s the fun in that?”

From that day on, Deuce couldn’t stop thinking about you. Sure, you were responsible, smart, and reliable—but you were also fun, mischievous, and surprisingly laid-back. It was a combination that made his heart race. He couldn’t tell if he wanted to impress you more or just keep watching as you effortlessly balanced it all with that mischievous smirk.

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle was never the type to be easily impressed—especially by someone who didn’t follow the rules to the letter. But you? You were an exception. Not only were you the perfect role model, responsible and composed, but you somehow managed to bend the rules without ever really breaking them. It was infuriating.

The first time you caught his attention was when you strolled into the Heartslabyul rose garden, completely ignoring the chaos around you. Students were scurrying left and right, trying to meet the latest rule Riddle had imposed. But you? You sat down calmly with a book, unbothered by the hustle and bustle.

“What are you doing here?” Riddle asked, standing over you with his arms crossed. “Shouldn’t you be studying for the upcoming alchemy test?”

You looked up, your smile the picture of innocence. “I already finished studying. Plus, fresh air helps with brain function, doesn’t it?”

Riddle blinked, thrown off by your response. Technically, you weren’t breaking any rules. But something about your calm demeanor did break his sense of order.

The second time you caught his attention was during a dorm meeting when you lightly teased him about his obsession with rules. “Riddle, you ever consider relaxing? Maybe just once?”

He stared at you, utterly scandalized. “Relax? During an official dorm meeting?”

You just grinned. “Just saying. You’re going to give yourself wrinkles if you keep frowning like that.”

Later that day, you upped the ante when you “accidentally” bumped into him and knocked a basket of strawberries onto the ground. Of course, you smiled sweetly, apologizing as you bent to pick them up, but then you slipped in a strawberry tart, decorated with red and white roses.

Riddle stared at it, completely baffled. “Did you—Did you paint roses on a tart?”

“Only the best for the Queen,” you replied with a wink, referencing the infamous Alice in Wonderland scene.

Riddle turned beet red, not from anger but because—against his will—he found it funny. He hated it. You were making him laugh, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

Then, came the day you pushed him too far. You were teasing him, playfully challenging one of his many rules, and before you knew it—bam. Collar. You were collared.

But instead of being embarrassed or angry, you sauntered off and returned ten minutes later, holding up a plate of beautifully decorated rose-themed sweets. “Am I forgiven yet?”

Riddle stared at the plate, his face a mix of emotions. “You… can’t just—fine. But only because you followed the correct procedure for apology.”

What really sealed the deal was when you noticed how exhausted Riddle was after a long day. You didn’t say anything, but the next time he sat down, there was a cup of tea waiting for him—perfectly brewed. You didn’t even mention it, just went about your day as if it was no big deal. But for Riddle, it was a very big deal. You weren’t just smart and responsible—you were kind, mischievous, and somehow always knew exactly what he needed. And that terrified and intrigued him all at once.

Ace Trappola

Ace was always drawn to people who could keep up with his chaotic energy, and from the outside, you seemed like the last person who would. You were responsible, always got top marks, and never seemed to get in trouble like he did. You were a Pomefiore student through and through, the perfect picture of elegance and order. Or at least, that’s what Ace thought—until you proved him wrong in the most unexpected ways.

One afternoon, Ace was busy concocting his latest scheme—rigging a classroom window so that it would slam shut the moment someone opened it. Classic prank, a little outdated, but effective. Deuce stood beside him, nervously watching while Ace fiddled with the mechanism.

Just when Ace was about to finish, you appeared out of nowhere, your usual calm expression fixed on your face. “A window prank, Ace? Really?” you teased, looking unimpressed. “You’ve got to come up with something more original.”

Ace, expecting you to lecture him, leaned back with a smug grin. “What’s wrong? You too perfect to appreciate a good prank?”

But instead of walking away or scolding him, you walked over, inspected the rigging, and—with a sly grin—yanked one of the cords so that it was perfectly calibrated to snap the window shut just as someone walked by. “There. Now it’ll make a better sound when it slams shut.”

Ace blinked. “Wait—you’re actually helping me?”

You shrugged, your grin widening. “Might as well. You were doing it wrong anyway.”

And that was the moment Ace realized you weren’t just some stuck-up, model student. You were fun, and a lot sneakier than you let on.

It didn’t stop there. One day, the two of you were walking across campus when Ace noticed something strange. A lone broom was sitting outside of the library, left behind after flying class. You glanced at it, then at Ace, a mischievous twinkle in your eye. “I bet I can stand on it.”

Ace was taken aback. “You mean ride it?”

“No,” you smirked. “I mean stand on it.”

Before Ace could stop you, you were hopping onto the broom in your immaculate Pomefiore uniform, balancing on it like a circus performer. The broom wobbled as you grinned at Ace, one foot on the handle, your arms outstretched. “See? Easy.”

Ace gaped at you, half expecting you to fall off. “You know you’re going to break your neck, right? I thought you were supposed to be the responsible one!”

“I’m responsible,” you said, hopping off the broom with a graceful landing. “I just know how to have fun.”

Ace didn’t know what to make of you. You weren’t just cool—you were insane in the best possible way. Who else would try to balance on a broom like it was a tightrope, in broad daylight, in front of the library? And still look like they had everything under control?

From then on, Ace couldn’t help but admire how you could be both the perfect student and completely unpredictable. One moment you’d be helping him with his homework, making sure he didn’t fail his classes, and the next, you’d be standing on a broom or rigging a prank right alongside him. You made the impossible look easy, and Ace was falling hard.

There was one day that really sealed the deal for him. After a long lecture, Ace was goofing off with Deuce, trying to sneak a piece of fruit out of the cafeteria without getting caught. You, being the mature one, walked up and raised an eyebrow. “Stealing now, are we?”

Ace snorted. “Come on, it’s just a piece of fruit. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Without missing a beat, you took the apple out of his hand, then tossed it over your shoulder—straight into the trash. “The worst thing is you could get caught.”

Ace stared at you in disbelief, then burst out laughing. You were sharp, clever, and always a step ahead of him. And it wasn’t long before he realized that maybe, just maybe, you were the one pranking him the entire time—by being so ridiculously cool without even trying.

Epel Felmier

Epel admired you from the moment you stepped into Pomefiore. You were the perfect model student—always well-behaved, top of your class, and you embodied the elegance Vil demanded. But what made Epel really start paying attention was that you weren’t just some delicate, rule-following Pomefiore statue. You were responsible, sure, but there was a wild side to you that came out in the most unexpected ways.

Take that time during broom riding practice, for example. Epel had seen you fly gracefully like it was second nature, while he was busy trying to not look like a complete disaster on his broom. Then, out of nowhere, you decided to take things to a whole new level. The instructor wasn’t paying attention, so you zoomed ahead of everyone, grinning like a maniac.

Epel watched in awe as you performed a perfect loop-de-loop before swooping down so fast you nearly gave Vil a heart attack. And, of course, you landed as if nothing happened, straightening your uniform and looking as poised as ever.

“Y-You can do tricks like that?” Epel asked, mouth agape.

You shrugged, brushing off the dust from your shoes. “It’s just flying. Gotta make it fun somehow.”

Epel couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

That day, Epel realized you were someone who could balance responsibility with freedom. He had always struggled with the restrictions of Pomefiore’s rigid beauty standards, but you managed to be both elegant and daring. It was like watching someone walk a tightrope with ease, and he was more than a little impressed.

But the thing that really cemented his admiration for you happened after one particularly intense Pomefiore training session. Vil had them all practicing their etiquette, posture, and poise, and Epel was on the verge of snapping. He wasn’t built for all this fancy stuff—he just wanted to be himself, rough edges and all.

After the session ended, you found Epel sulking by the fountain, muttering curses under his breath about how “ridiculous” all this refinement was.

“Need a break from all the beauty drills?” you asked, sitting down beside him.

Epel sighed, frustrated. “I just don’t get it. Why do we have to be so… proper all the time? Ain’t no one back home cared about sittin’ all pretty.”

You nodded, understanding. “I get it. Sometimes all this elegance stuff can be stifling.”

Epel looked at you in surprise. “You? I thought you were like… the perfect student. You never seem bothered by it.”

You chuckled softly. “That’s ‘cause I’ve learned how to balance it out. You gotta know when to let loose. Speaking of which…”

Without another word, you stood up, pulled your shoes off, and started wading into the fountain like it was the most natural thing in the world. Epel stared at you in disbelief.

“What in tarnation are you doin’?” he asked, trying to hold back a laugh.

“Cooling off,” you replied with a mischievous grin. “C’mon, you’ll feel better.”

Epel hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and kicked off his shoes, joining you in the fountain. You both splashed around, laughing like kids, completely disregarding the stares from the other Pomefiore students passing by. It was the most fun he’d had in weeks, and it felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

“You’re crazy, y’know that?” Epel laughed, wiping water from his face.

“Maybe,” you replied with a wink. “But sometimes, a little crazy is exactly what we need.”

From that day on, Epel saw you as more than just a perfect role model. You were someone who understood the pressure of perfection but also knew how to break free from it when necessary. And the fact that you didn’t mind getting a little reckless now and then? Well, that just made him like you even more.

Later, as the two of you dried off by the fountain, Epel found himself smiling—really smiling—for the first time in a while. You weren’t just cool; you were fearless, and that was something he admired more than anything.

Masterlist

[mattslvrxo]

hi everyone— over the past few days, i’ve been pretending to be friends with our “favorite” liar, @dollysturnioo (now known as @sturniolosdoll ). as many of you are aware, @nickssidewitch already made a post addressing this situation and raised several valid points about the dishonesty from these “NDA” accounts. but, the only person i got close to was dolly. our interactions began after a small, insignificant exchange in her comment section, which led to her dming me directly.

if you don’t know dolly, she’s been claiming that she’s secretly dating chris sturniolo and that she’s under a non-disclosure agreement (nda) that prevents her from talking about it publicly. but almost immediately after messaging me, someone she didn’t even know, she started revealing private details that she supposedly isn’t allowed to share. if you’ve actually signed a real nda, that kind of behavior is not just irresponsible—it could be a legal violation.

on top of that, she’s also made claims about matt sturniolo having a secret girlfriend, as if she has insider knowledge on their private lives. but again, these are serious accusations with no actual proof—just vague statements meant to make her seem more connected than she really is.

CONVERSATION IN HER COMMENTS:

as shown, our conversation was more humorous in tone. i played into the role of an overdramatic, emotional girl whos obsessed with matt as a joke (but i totally am obsessed lolll)

THE DMS:

this is where i formed the idea: become her “friend” and get information. i asked her to be moots, which eventually opened the door to a potential friendship.

DOLLY TALKING TO ME ABOUT DATING CHRIS:

which was odd to me because in the public comments (screenshot provided), she explicitly says she won’t answer any questions regarding whether she’s dating one of the triplets. yet, less than 10 minutes into our conversation, she tells me she’s dating chris. this is especially strange because she claimed she signed an nda—a legally binding agreement preventing her from disclosing that kind of information for six months. it makes absolutely no sense for her to reveal that to someone she barely knows, especially within a day of speaking online

NDA TALK:

here, she confirms to me directly that she signed an nda. regardless of whether that’s true, anyone genuinely bound by an nda—especially someone over 21—would understand how serious it is not to share that kind of confidential detail with a stranger online.

(referring to the triplets by saying clones)

INSTAGRAM INFO:

as we continued talking, she gave me a brief description of what she looked like..

while the description wasn’t very detailed, she did mention having blue hair—which isn’t super common—making it relatively easier to narrow her down. i spent about 30 minutes combing through chris’s following, mentions, etc. i sped the video up 100x since i couldn’t upload the full length, and i’ll include the clip below:

i blurred parts that could show my profile pic or my mutuals’ handles, but as you can see at the top, i’m going through chris’s following. not once did i find a plus-size girl with blue hair. it’s possible she doesn’t have instagram, but from what i saw, no one fitting that description is followed by chris.

MATT AND CHRIS BEING APART OF THE LGBTQ COMMUNITY AND NICK NOT BEING “COMPLETELY GAY” :

during a conversation about kinks and preferences, she said this:

this immediately struck me as off—there’s never been any indication that matt is a part of the lgbtq+ community. we all know him as straight. that comment alone made me question everything:

as you can see she also claimed that nick has slept with women, yet in this clip from one of their reaction videos: https://mega.nz/file/Xixy0Sxa#nl8deY6Aswttl7w1fr7IM_Wo4ZE--exOn322O4CQnSQ

(I put it as a MEGA link because I cannot add more than one video from my camera roll in this blog post ) he literally says he wouldn’t date a woman and even mentions not wanting to touch a woman at all. she did say that he would not date a woman, but she did mention him having like sexual contact with a woman. 

side note: just because she have the boys' “permission” to tell their sexualities to ppl doesn't mean that she SHOULD

MATT AND CHRIS BOTH BEING INTERESTED IN DOLLY:

she also claimed that she hooked up with matt at some point:

also, in this screenshot which, the person who provided me this will stay anonymous: https://mega.nz/file/TiIgkJhR#pbcPz0zX3scb8nkHiJrln9pqLU230AOak75ysMbLD5g

the account that claims to be matt says that theyre basically all in a poly relationship that includes: dolly, loopie, matt, and chris.

however, in their reading fanfiction pt. 2 video: https://mega.nz/file/OnwnkJxY#Lw5mQy9mBdJJRevtPEsp2HygeYHGYjeMOenIyUxE0ek

chris says he would never be interested in a girl who’s had any kind of involvement with matt.

so if she did hook up with matt, and now claims she’s with chris—and on top of that still says she adores matt (which she told me directly)—none of it makes sense.

ENDING NOTE:

lying about being under an nda isn’t just suspicious—it’s legally risky and potentially dangerous. ndas, or non-disclosure agreements, are binding legal contracts. if you actually sign one, breaking it can lead to serious consequences like lawsuits, fines, and long-term damage to your reputation. and if you’re lying about having signed one just to make your story seem more believable, that’s not only manipulative—it disrespects the real legal boundaries that people in the public eye actually have to deal with.

pretending to be in a relationship with someone and claiming to have signed an nda as “proof” is a major red flag. it shows a complete lack of understanding of how serious and private that kind of agreement really is. ndas are in place to protect reputations, careers, and private information—not to be used as props in lies to get attention online.

whoever is behind this account needs to understand that this isn’t just harmless gossip anymore. it’s misleading, it’s manipulative, and it’s disrespectful to both the creators involved and the fans who genuinely support them. at this point, the inconsistencies are overwhelming. multiple people have come forward with undeniable proof that this person is not who they claim to be, and it’s becoming clear that the story they’ve built is based on lies.

if the person behind this account has any respect for the people they’re talking about—or even just a sense of accountability—they should step forward and admit the truth. because continuing to lie when the evidence is stacked against you won’t protect you forever. it only makes the fallout worse when it finally comes.

——————————————————————————

taglist: @birlemsbae @elianamattlvr @sagesturns @adoreyousturniolos @sturnizolo @chrissturnslovergirlx @slvt4chrissturniolo @sturniolo-szn2 @matts-girlfriend @chrispleasure @sturns-mermaid @loverrgirl3 @chrisspussygang @kait123456789876543 @sturnsiolos0 @chrissv4mp @auttysturnz @chrizfavlilslut @chrissonnyangel @mattsweethart @mattsmatcha @mattscumdump @sturnitup @sturnshood @coolasice01 @munchingmini @sturniologlaze @sturnswiftie @sturn-baby05

[bonecrowneddoe]

Yk what? Fuck it, another notes game! If we reached a goal, I'd make it red, and if I actually did it then I'll turn it blue.

10 notes- I'll write something about one of my fandoms(I would normally avoid that since I'm far too stupid blind to subtext to contribute anything to a discussion)

20 notes-i'll work on my collage end of year project

60 notes-i'll not spend any of my spending money for an entire month unless I have to

100 notes-i'll cook a new recipe that I never cooked before

140 notes-i won't get drunk/do other things with bad lasting consequences for two months(I'm honestly slowly becoming an alcoholic, I think, and I don't want to)

180 notes-i'll read a new book/do something else outside of my comfort zone that is also actually intellectually stimulating.

220 notes-i'll work on(and finish!)one of my WIPs and send it after I'm done.

260 notes-i'll actively jog at least twice a week

300 notes-every one who gave me 40+ notes gets to add an additional task to this list, so long as A-it isn't actively harmful to myself B-it isn't sexual

I thank you for any notes, friends. To all my moots: I love you. To all my friends who I'm not moots with: I love you. You're wonderful and you deserve all the love.

[emeritusemeritus]

Art of Deception [Fred Weasley x Reader]

Title: Art of Deception.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Gryffindor!Reader

Timeline: Non-specified.

Summary: Cormac McLaggen won’t take no for an answer, insert fake dating trope with Fred Weasley.

Warnings: Fake dating? Mentions of Cormac, he needs his own warning. Kissing. Implied derogatory comments about wealth, status and red hair.

"Okay, emergency, for the next five minutes you're my boyfriend, okay Weasley?" You say in a rush, sliding in next to Fred on the common room sofa, almost out of breath as you run in, narrowly avoiding your pursuer.

"Can do, come here" he says matter-of-factly as he pulls you into his lap without a second thought.

"Not even questioning it?" You ask curiously at his unquestioning willingness to go along with your silly scheme.

"Nope," he says simply, rubbing his hand across your back as you sit across his lap.

The worn fabric of his jumper feels soft against your skin as you lean into him just a little, enjoying the feeling of being so close to him. You flinch a little as the portrait covered door swings open, knowing exactly who would be entering. Fred must have felt your slight flinch and flicks his gaze to you, his hand still rubbing your back. You feel his long fingers bump into the band of your bra strap and he lingers only a moment, fingers hovering over the clasp before swiftly changing the direction of his absent stroking.

"Oh, y/n, didn't think I'd find you here," Cormac says, running a hand through his curly locks which don't even move thanks to all the product in them.

"In her boyfriend's lap?" Fred says, sounding possessive, playing the role perfectly.

"Boyfriend?" Cormac asks, eyes widening at the realisation that you were sat in someone's lap, and that person being Fred Weasley.

"Yep," he says with a wicked smirk, pulling you righter to him as his arm snakes around your waist.

"Didn't think gingers where your thing," Cormac says, posing on the side of the couch where he leans trying to look seductive but failing miserably.

"This one is," you shrug, gesturing to Fred who sends a sarcastic smirk towards McLaggen.

"Look I've made my intentions clear but you keep playing hard to get," Cormac says smugly, clearly not reading the room. "I'm top of the class in charms, keeper for the quidditch team, perfect student record and"

"Narcissistic," you add.

"A Prat?" Fred interjects at the same time.

Cormac ignores your words entirely, fixing you with a smarmy smile, "I'm a Mclaggen, why would you want to parade round with a Weasley when you could go out with me?"

The word 'Weasley' was said like a curse word with just a hint less sneering than Malfoy's way of saying it; but with just the same tone of condescension and derogation.

His verbal attack on the Weasley name did not sit right with you one bit and you couldn't hold back any longer, not when he was offending your friends.

"Because, unlike you McLaggen, Fred actually has a sense of humour, doesn't have a face like a troll and doesn't make me want to be sick when he opens his mouth," you say, trying to hold back your own sneer.

"But," he tries to say but you sarcastically smirk back at him, not willing to let him argue your statements.

"You want more? Okay," you snark, "He's a beater in the quidditch team so you're bragging is moot, he's kind and don't even get me started on how knee-shakingly tall he is. I can't think of anymore ways to tell you that I'm not attracted to you Cormac."

"So you're sticking with the Weasel then?" Cormac says with a huff after a few moments silence, staring you down.

"Looks like it to me," you shrug, choosing to ignore his turn of phrase.

"And me," Fred says harshly before turning you to face him, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw as he presses his lips to yours, pulling you in to a surprisingly passionate kiss. It takes you a second for the shock to wear off but you quickly kiss him back, no longer caring about Cormac or anything else around you. You pull apart eventually, discovering Cormac had left and you looked up at Fred with a sudden shyness at your actions.

"Knee-shaking Eh?" Fred teases, his hand moving from your hair to wrap around a strand of hair on your shoulder.

"Shut up Weasel," you snarked jokingly, nudging him with your shoulder, mirroring Cormac's apparent nickname for the jokester.

"I'm just saying, you did make some very good points there about me," he smirks, still holding you firmly in his lap. "Almost as if you had them prepared."

"Oh shove off," you laughed, nudging his arm around you so that he'd let you up, but it only seemed to fuel him to hold you ever tighter, not letting you escape. "I could have been describing anyone."

"I could describe you too you know," he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows and you push him once again to get off of you but he just laughs.

"Go on then, I'm annoying and sarcastic and," you say rolling your eyes already at the anticipated sarcasm about to fall from his lips.

"Funny and mischievous, more talented than I've ever seen anyone be at potions and devastatingly beautiful," he says, making you flick your gaze to him in surprise. You'd expected him to follow it with a joke or say it with pure sarcasm but nothing came, he simply looked down at you with honesty in his eyes and a smile tugging at his lips.

"You know, I could get used to having you in my lap, fake girlfriend or maybe not so fake girlfriend."