#but it was weird when I was trying to work on a group project and she kept trying to keep everyone out of it and do it all herself

[kikizoshi]

Been thinking about Sun's voice lines again, and the "Attention! This carousel is out of service and will require repairs before we open tomorrow. ... That is the end of my instruction! If I had been programmed with the knowledge to fix it, it would've already been done," lines strike me as so funny. 'Cause like. It implies to me that Fazbear cared enough to keep even the briefing material on-brand with animatronic voiceovers, so they had Sun record the carousel how-to because he was associated with it (or associated with Fall Fest which was the closest they could get), but then they didn't actually tell him what to say or how to instruct, just like,

"Hey Sunman come record the maintenance briefing for the carousel."

And Sun's like, "Sure thing!" thinking they're gonna give him a script or something. And then they just. Set him in front of a microphone and say "go." And Sun's irritated 'cause if they're gonna give him a job they should give him something to work with. But they don't. And those lines are what we get. Brief, unhelpful, and very passive-aggressive. It's so funny to me.

[sixeyesonathiel]

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

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

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

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

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

the compressor’s peaking again.

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

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

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

ping.

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

you.

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

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

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

“no,” he types, then erases it.

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

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

i guess. send what you have.

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

flashback.exe

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

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

but you were different.

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

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

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

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

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

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

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

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

typical.

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

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

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

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

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

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

he watches again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he’s close. too close.

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

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

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

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

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

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

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

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

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

np.

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

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

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

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

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

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

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

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

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

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

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

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

to replay your giggle.

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

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

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

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

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

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

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

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

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

ping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he freezes.

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

you giggle.

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

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

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

satoru’s fingers twitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he tries to normalize it.

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

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

he tells himself he’s just learning.

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

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

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

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

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

the next class is worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a new text lights up his screen:

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

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

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

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

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

he hates himself.

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

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

it starts with static in his skull.

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

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

it doesn’t help.

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

satoru’s trying.

really.

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

2:03 a.m.

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

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

march haul (raw).mp4

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

click.

of course he does.

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

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

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

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

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

he knows it.

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

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

he does.

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

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he doesn’t blink.

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

he can’t breathe.

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

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

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

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

but it’s you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it’s been three weeks.

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

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

the worst part?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

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

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

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

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

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

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

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

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

baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

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

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

it starts with a ping.

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

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

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

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

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

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

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

satoru doesn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your silence makes him spiral.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

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

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

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

“i know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“mine.”

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

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

friday’s going to be filthy.

[shy9-29]

I actually need a two faced jake where at school hes a sore loser versus when he’s alone with yn—complete menace. Biggest cocky flirt out there. At first, yn didn’t know much about jake until he bent her over and fucked the living shit outta her. I’m just down bad for Jake ok.

Two Faced, One Heart: Who is Sim Jake?

심재윤 x reader

୨ৎ Two versions of Jake Sim—one the shy, clumsy boy who spills his coffee at school, the other the filthy-mouthed menace who had you shaking in his lap just hours before class—and somehow, you’re hopelessly addicted to both. ✉️ wc. 13.1k ⋆˙⟡ ⚠️ warnings : oral (both received), begging, teasing, cream pie, minor slut shamming, bullying, pet names, making out, swearing, harsh language, haur pulling, unprotected sex

📝: thats so fucking hot omg? I need jake so bad rn it’s not even funny

mndi · req open

———

The words come out before you can stop them.

“Do you think I could get Jake to fall for me?”

Your friends stare at you like you just confessed to having a crush on the cafeteria salad bar.

“Jake Sim?” Min gapes. “The guy who thanked the printer for working?” Jisoo raises a brow. “His Instagram only has twelve followers. Twelve. One of them is his dog’s account.” You try not to laugh. “Okay, but he’s kind of… sweet?” Min scoffs. “He wears socks with sandals.” You shrug. “Maybe I like that.” You don’t tell them that two nights ago, Jake had you bent over your tiny dorm desk, fingers tangled in your hair, voice low and smug in your ear while you struggled to stay quiet. Because no one would believe you.

Not when the Jake they know fumbles over his words in group projects and blushes when people look at him too long.

But you’ve seen the other side. The one who locks his door with a click and flips like a switch. You see him again the next day in class, right on time as always. Same oversized hoodie, same messy hair. He sits two rows behind you and doesn’t say a word.

You don’t look at him. Not really. But you feel him watching you. The weight of his stare pressed between your shoulder blades. Like he knows exactly what you’re thinking about. Then, when you stand to leave, he brushes past you. Just a little too close. His fingers graze the small of your back—light, subtle, hidden. But it sends heat shooting down your spine. You catch up to him by the vending machines, just outside the library. He’s pretending to debate between orange juice and sparkling water.

You stop beside him. “Healthy choices.” Jake doesn’t look at you. “You wore that lip gloss again.” Your lips curve. “Maybe I like the flavor.” He reaches forward, selects a drink without thinking, and pays. His voice drops, just loud enough for you to hear. “I like it better off my tongue.” Your breath hitches. A pair of students walk past, one of them waving vaguely in Jake’s direction. He nods back with that usual shy smile, all harmless and mild-mannered.

The second they’re gone, his hand brushes against yours, fingers curling briefly around yours before letting go. You’re not sure your heart knows how to keep a steady rhythm around him anymore.

You didn’t know when it started—maybe it was the way Jake always sat in the back of class, quiet and unassuming. Or the fact that, every time you glanced at him, he never seemed to notice. He’d scribble in his notebook, the only sound in the room his pencil moving across the paper. You thought he was weird at first. Too quiet. Too in the background. The kind of person everyone else ignored. But there was something about him you couldn’t shake. The way his glasses would slide down his nose when he concentrated, or how he always wore the same hoodie, despite the weather.

The first time you spoke to him was after class. Your notes were mixed up, and you needed help with something—so you took a deep breath, made your way to him, and asked.

He looked up, startled. His cheeks went pink, and he mumbled something about being “kind of bad at explaining things,” but he agreed to help. That’s how it started. He was awkward. Shy. And he was perfect. You thought about him more than you should have, even as your friends teased you about how he was “just a soft loser” or “too quiet to ever be interesting.” But something about the way he treated you—how he never rushed you, never pushed, always listened—had you intrigued.

Then, the texts started coming. Small things at first—like a picture of a puppy he saw that reminded him of you. Or a random meme about books you both liked. They came at odd times, too. Late at night. In the middle of the day. And you found yourself looking forward to them, even though you knew he wasn’t exactly the “popular” guy at school.

One night, after a study session that stretched long into the evening, you both found yourselves alone in the library. It was just the two of you, the quiet hum of fluorescent lights above, the scent of paper and coffee between you. He looked at you like he wanted to say something, but he never did. Instead, he helped you pack up your things, careful not to touch you too much, but his fingers brushed yours when he handed you your coat. You thought you imagined it, the little spark that shot through your hand, but the way his eyes flicked to yours said otherwise.

“Uh, good night,” he mumbled, voice hushed. You smiled, feeling your heartbeat in your throat. “Good night, Jake.” You didn’t know it then, but that would be the night it all started to shift.

The next few weeks were a blur of fleeting glances, stolen moments. You’d catch him looking at you in class, only for him to quickly look away. Sometimes, he’d find reasons to walk the same path as you, his steps light, as if testing the water between you. And each time, the air between you would grow heavier, electric, like something unsaid was hanging in the space between your words. It wasn’t until one rainy afternoon that things finally tipped over the edge. You were on your way to the library when you spotted him standing under the awning of a building, looking at his phone. His hoodie was pulled up over his head, and he seemed to be oblivious to the fact that the rain was starting to soak through the sleeves.

“Jake!” you called out, jogging over to him. “You’re gonna get soaked.” He looked up in surprise. “Oh, uh… I was just trying to figure out when the rain’s supposed to stop.” He smiled sheepishly. “I should’ve checked the forecast before heading out.” You shook your head, already pulling your umbrella out. “Come on. You’re coming with me.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You’re not standing out here getting drenched. You’re walking me to the library.”

He hesitated, then smiled, a soft, shy grin. “Okay.”

You shared the umbrella, walking side by side. The world outside was blurred by the rain, everything muted except for the sound of your shoes on the pavement and the occasional brush of his elbow against yours. It felt casual, but something about it—something about him—made your heart race in a way you couldn’t explain.

When you reached the library, you both stood under the awning for a second, the warmth of the building just inside. You were both still close, the air between you thick with unspoken things.

And that was when it happened.

Without saying a word, Jake leaned in just enough to let his breath ghost against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “If I walked you to class every day, would you still act like I’m invisible?” he whispered.

Your heart skipped, and you didn’t know how to respond. You didn’t know what to say, or what he was really offering. But you knew, in that moment, everything between you had shifted.

And you weren’t sure you were ready for it.

But you wanted to be.

You’d never seen Jake without his glasses.

The guy everyone knew—shy, reserved, a little awkward—was always framed by those round lenses. It was part of his quiet charm, the way they softened his features, how he hid behind them like a shield. No one really saw the guy underneath, the guy who barely made waves, who faded into the background of every class.

Until today.

You hadn’t expected this when you got the text. “Roommate’s out. You wanna come over?”

It wasn’t anything crazy. It could be a quiet hangout, maybe some late-night studying. But there was a strange feeling building in your stomach, something telling you that tonight might be different.

When you knocked on Jake’s door, you barely had time to brace yourself before it swung open.

And there he was.

Jake, standing there, no glasses. He was wearing contacts, and the difference hit you immediately. His eyes, normally hidden behind lenses, were now wide open, sharp, clear. They looked darker somehow, and for the first time, you saw something in them that wasn’t there before. Confidence. A kind of intensity that threw you off guard.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice smooth, low—nothing like the awkward, stuttering Jake you were used to.

“Hi,” you replied, unsure of what to say, suddenly aware of how close he was standing.

Jake stepped aside, letting you into the room. You took a quick look around—same dorm, but the vibe was different. The room was tidier than you expected, clean, almost meticulous. No clutter, no random piles of clothes or books. It felt… like a space where Jake had control, where things were on his terms.

“You can sit wherever,” Jake said, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed. His posture was relaxed, but there was an edge to it now, something about the way he stood that was different from the usual quiet guy you saw on campus.

You sat on the edge of his bed, but you didn’t know where to look. His eyes were still on you, and the way he watched you made the air between you feel thick, charged.

He took his time, like he wasn’t in any rush. “You didn’t expect this, did you?” Jake’s voice was quieter now, almost like he was daring you to admit it.

You shifted slightly, trying to act casual, but it was hard. “No. I didn’t think you’d be like this.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t the kind of shy, soft smile you were used to. It was different. “Like what?”

You hesitated, but then shrugged. “I don’t know. More… sure of yourself. Less… nervous.”

Jake raised an eyebrow, and there was a flash of something dark in his eyes. “You think I’m nervous?”

You nodded slowly, testing him. “Yeah. I mean, you’ve always been… kind of quiet.”

Jake took a step closer, his expression unreadable now, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m not shy. Just don’t feel the need to put on a show for anyone. And I don’t think you’re stupid enough to believe I’m some clueless guy.”

You stayed silent, suddenly aware of how close he was now, how his presence filled up the space between you.

He was different tonight. No hesitation. No awkward stutter. Just… Jake. But the version of him that you never saw—sharp, self-assured, and unbothered by anything or anyone around him.

“Want to see how different I am?” he asked, his voice lowering, the question hanging in the air.

You barely had time to process before his fingers brushed your arm, the simple touch making your heart race. And just like that, you realized you weren’t ready for the change that was happening between you—but you were already in too deep to turn back.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you agreed to come over, but it wasn’t this.

Jake leaned against the wall in front of you, and for the first time, you felt a shift in the way he held himself, like there was something between you that wasn’t there before. His gaze didn’t flicker away from yours, and his posture was different. He was comfortable—too comfortable, and it made the room feel smaller, hotter.

You opened your mouth to say something, but Jake beat you to it, his voice low and steady. “You don’t look at me the same way you used to.”

Your chest tightened. “What do you mean?”

His smirk deepened. “You’re looking at me like you’re seeing me for the first time. Like I’m not just the quiet guy in the back of class.”

You tried to ignore the way his words made your pulse pick up speed. He was right, and it unsettled you more than you wanted to admit. The Jake you knew was always reserved, always hiding behind his quiet act. But the Jake in front of you now? He was different. More sure of himself. More… commanding.

Before you could find the right words, Jake pushed off the wall and closed the distance between you. He didn’t touch you at first, but you could feel the heat coming off him. You took a shallow breath, the air between you thick with tension.

“Are you nervous?” he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

You shook your head, but you could feel the unease building in your stomach, creeping up your chest. It wasn’t nerves—it was something else. Something new. Something dangerous.

He seemed to sense it, that tiny shift in your energy, and it made him lean in closer. “You can admit it,” he whispered. “I won’t bite.”

Your lips parted slightly at the sound of his voice, thick and low. There was nothing innocent about him now. You could see it clearly. This wasn’t the guy who stumbled over his words or blushed at the slightest attention. This was a version of Jake you hadn’t been prepared for.

And now that you were seeing him—really seeing him—you weren’t sure you wanted to turn away.

Jake’s hand came up to touch your chin, his thumb brushing over your skin with purpose. He tilted your head slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he was dying to solve. His touch was slow, deliberate, and it made every nerve in your body stand on edge.

“Do you like this?” he asked softly, his thumb tracing along your jawline. “Do you like seeing me like this?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you found yourself staring at him, watching how his eyes flickered with something darker, something that made your heart race in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

“I don’t know,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jake’s smirk only grew, and before you could react, he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t a soft kiss, the kind you were used to. It wasn’t gentle or cautious. No, this was different. This was hungry. It was messy. He kissed you like he’d been waiting for this moment, like he couldn’t wait any longer. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, his lips parting against yours as if he was trying to steal every breath from your lungs.

You let him. You let him pull you in, let him show you what he was capable of when there was no one around to see it.

When he pulled away, just enough to let you catch your breath, his eyes never left yours. There was something predatory in his gaze now, something that made your pulse race.

“You’ve been looking at me for a while,” Jake murmured, his breath warm against your lips. “You never thought I could be like this, did you?”

You swallowed hard, your mind scrambling for something to say, but all that came out was a shaky breath.

Jake smiled, that same smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll show you just how different I can be.”

And that was when you realized—there was no going back now.

Jake’s lips hovered just inches from yours, his breath mixing with yours, the tension in the air making every nerve in your body feel alive. His eyes were locked onto yours, and you could see the way he was waiting for you—waiting for you to decide how far you wanted to go, how far you were willing to let things shift.

You had never seen him like this. The quiet guy you knew had been replaced by someone far more confident, far more intense. His hand was still resting at the back of your neck, and the way his thumb traced small circles against your skin sent a shiver down your spine.

He didn’t kiss you again right away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, studying you, watching for any sign of hesitation, any sign that you weren’t ready. His thumb grazed your jaw again, this time a little firmer, almost as if he was marking his territory, making sure you knew he was in control now.

And then, without warning, he pressed his lips against yours again—but this time, the kiss was slower. It was deeper, more deliberate, as if he was savoring it. His other hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer until you could feel the heat of his body against yours.

You tried to breathe, but it was hard. It felt like the world was closing in around you, leaving only the two of you in that small, charged space. You couldn’t focus on anything except the way his lips moved against yours, the way his hands shifted, each touch sparking a new wave of heat in your body.

He pulled away just enough to speak, his voice low, gravelly. “I told you… I’m not the guy you thought I was.”

You nodded, your throat tight, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. You could barely process what was happening. Everything about this felt different, so different from anything you’d imagined. The shy, awkward Jake had been replaced by someone who wasn’t afraid to take what he wanted.

His lips trailed down to your neck, and the soft press of his mouth against your skin made your breath catch in your throat. He moved slowly, deliberately, his hands never straying far from you. The warmth of his touch spread through you, and you felt your body responding in ways you hadn’t expected.

“Jake,” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper as his lips traced along your collarbone.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with something primal. “Tell me what you want baby?” His voice was barely audible, but it cut through the fog in your mind.

You didn’t know how to answer, not with words. You had never been this close to him, not like this, not with the air crackling between you like it was about to catch fire. The way the pet name slipped so easily from his mouth made your pussy clench around nothing. But the look in his eyes, the intensity of his gaze, made something stir inside you.

Without thinking, you leaned in again, your lips pressing against his. This time, there was no hesitation. You kissed him back, a little harder this time, both groaning into the kiss as if you were trying to prove something—prove that you were ready for whatever came next.

Jake didn’t pull away. Instead, his hands slid lower, around your waist, pulling you even closer. You felt the heat of his body against yours, his chest rising and falling with each breath. His hands were firm, confident as they explored the curve of your back, the tension in your muscles, the way your body responded to him. 

Every inch of space between you seemed to vanish, and soon there was nothing but the heat, the closeness, and the feeling of his hands on your skin.

For the first time, you weren’t sure if you were in control anymore—or if you ever had been.

Jake pulled away from the kiss, his breath ragged as he looked at you with that same intense gaze. There was something in his eyes—an unspoken challenge, a promise of something you couldn’t quite yet name. You could feel the tension building, heavy in the air between you, thickening with each second that passed.

He reached up slowly, his fingers brushing the collar of his shirt, and your heart skipped a beat as he pulled it over his head, revealing the smooth skin of his chest. The movement was casual, effortless, like he’d done it a thousand times before. His muscles shifted under his skin, the soft light of the room catching the contours of his body, and it was like everything about him felt real now—far more than you ever thought.

You couldn’t help but stare, your gaze tracing over the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. There was no trace of the shy, reserved guy from before. Instead, he stood there—bare, exposed—looking at you with a calm confidence that made your pulse race.

Jake didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His eyes spoke volumes as they flickered to yours, waiting for you to respond, to make the next move.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you took in the sight of him, suddenly feeling a shift, a hunger building within you that mirrored his own. It was a quiet power, a tension you could feel in your very bones.

Jake’s eyes never left yours as you stood there, frozen for a moment. The air felt thick, charged, as if time had slowed down, and the weight of his gaze made everything around you fade into the background.

He stepped toward you, his chest still bare, his body moving with a kind of fluid confidence that made your pulse spike. Each step he took seemed to make the space between you shrink, until you were once again within inches of him. He didn’t rush. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he were savoring every moment.

“Do you want this?” he asked, his voice low, steady. The question hung in the air, but there was no hesitation in his tone—only the calm certainty of someone who knew exactly what they wanted.

Your throat tightened, and you nodded, though words seemed impossible to find. The only sound in the room was the quickening rhythm of your breath, mingling with his.

Jake’s hand reached for the hem of your shirt, his fingers grazing your skin as he lifted it, gently pulling it over your head. You let him, your heart pounding in your chest, your skin heating under his touch. He didn’t rush, his hands tracing the curves of your body with careful attention, like he was memorizing every inch of you.

When your shirt finally joined his on the floor, he stepped back slightly to take you in, his gaze sweeping over your exposed skin. His eyes darkened further, a look of quiet admiration in them, but there was something else there too—something predatory, possessive.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmured, his voice rougher now, the words low but full of meaning.

You could barely process what was happening, but the way he said it—like he was claiming you, and yet somehow honoring you at the same time—made your chest tighten. His hands were at your waist now, pulling you closer again, and his lips found the curve of your neck. He kissed you there softly, his mouth warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

As he kissed you, his hands moved lower, slowly, deliberately, until he was holding you, guiding you gently toward his bed. There was no rush, no urgency—just the feel of his strong hands, the weight of his body against yours, and the soft pressure of his lips as they trailed down to your collarbone.

Jake was taking his time, savoring the moments. He wanted you—he was showing you that much, but he was also letting you see a side of him that no one else got to experience.

And as he lowered you onto the bed, his lips never leaving your skin, you felt a kind of surrender that you couldn’t explain. He was confident, sure of every move he made. But so were you.

This was new. You were new.

Jake’s lips found the delicate curve of your neck, and you inhaled sharply as a wave of warmth flooded your body. His kisses were slow, teasing, each one leaving a faint, tingling trail on your skin. You could feel his breath against you, warm and steady, as he placed soft, lingering kisses along the sensitive spot beneath your ear.

His hands, still resting on your waist, tightened their grip slightly, pulling you closer to him. Every movement was deliberate, purposeful, as if he was in no rush to get anywhere, wanting to savor every moment.

“You’re such a good girl,” Jake murmured against your skin, his voice low and rough. The words sent a shiver down your spine, stirring something deep inside you. His praise, soft yet commanding, made your heart race even faster, the air between you growing thick with desire.

You couldn’t help the soft gasp that escaped your lips, your body reacting to the way his voice made you feel—like you were exactly where you needed to be, like you were his.

Jake smiled against your neck, the words lingering in the air. “So good for me,” he whispered, his lips brushing the spot again. You could feel the confidence in his words, the way he was claiming the moment, claiming you. The heat that had been building between you both was undeniable now, and you knew, without a doubt, that this was no longer the shy, quiet guy from school.

This was Jake. The Jake who knew exactly what he wanted—and wasn’t afraid to take it.

The room felt smaller now, even with the space around you. The air was thick with a quiet tension, a sense of something inevitable hanging between you two. Jake was no longer standing across from you, maintaining that careful distance. He was close—too close—and it was clear that neither of you wanted to back away.

You could feel the pull of him, an invisible force that seemed to draw you in, making it impossible to ignore the heat that had been simmering between you both. You’d known this feeling, this desire, had been building for weeks. But now it was no longer just something you could push aside, something you could pretend wasn’t there.

“Do you trust me?” Jake’s voice was soft, but there was a weight to it, a seriousness that sent a ripple of excitement through you. He was close now, his chest nearly brushing yours, and the way he spoke made it clear he wasn’t just asking out of curiosity.

You nodded, unable to find your voice for a moment, the words lost in the heat of the moment. Jake smiled—genuine, a little wicked—and his hand reached out to guide you toward the desk.

The desk that had become a symbol of something you didn’t even fully understand yet. He placed his hands on your hips, his touch firm but not rough, leading you with careful, deliberate steps. Your breath caught in your throat as you felt the edge of the desk against the back of your knees.

He stopped, his lips grazing the side of your neck as he whispered, “Stay still for me baby.”

There was an undeniable force in the way he held you, a promise in his words. Your pulse raced as your hands rested against the cool surface of the desk. The room was suddenly quieter, the sounds of your breaths louder than anything else.

Jake stood behind you, his chest pressed against your back. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the way his breath ghosted over your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. There was a certain thrill in knowing that he was completely in control, that he was in charge.

His hands moved with purpose, sliding from your hips up your sides, lingering over the curve of your waist, tracing slow circles over your ribs. You wanted to press back against him, to feel the weight of him against you, but something kept you still, some tiny shred of self-control.

Jake's hands moved higher, fingers trailing over your collarbone, and you couldn't help the soft gasp that escaped your lips. His touch was firm, possessive, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. You wanted to arch into him, to feel the weight of his body against yours, but you kept your hips planted against the desk, fighting the urge.

Jake's lips traced a path down your neck, and you could feel the smile on his face as he spoke, his voice low and rough. "You're doing so well for me," he murmured.

The words slipped out before you could stop them, your voice shaky and desperate, "I need to feel you-need your cock."

You could feel him smirk against your skin, his hands tracing slow, teasing circles over your hips. "You that desperate, you slut?" he scoffed, his words like a taunt, a challenge.

Jake's words sent heat coursing through your veins, the sound of your own whimpering catching you off guard. It was a sound of desperation, of need, and it betrayed a vulnerability you hadn't meant to show.

But he heard it. Of course he did. He was so close to you, his body pressed against yours, and there were no more secrets between you.

You could feel the anticipation building, the air around you thick with tension. Jake's hands moved with purpose, tugging at your skirt, and it came down in a swift motion, pooling around your ankles. He took a step back, giving you space, and for a moment, you were left standing in just your underwear.

Jake's eyes darkened as he watched you, the desire in his gaze unmistakable. He moved closer again, crowding you against the desk, and you could feel the heat radiating off his bare skin, the way it made your skin prickle with anticipation.

You looked back to see Jake stroking his already leaking cock, letting out a low groan in the process. You could feel a smirk form on his lips as he shoves your panties aside. “Jesus yn, you’re dripping.” His words brought a throbbing sensation to your pussy, a desperate whimper leaving your mouth. “Jake…please,” you begged. “I need to feel you.” The heat in your body was almost unbearable now, your words little more than a ragged breath as you plead with him, "Fuck, Jake." It was like all the thoughts had slipped away from you, replaced by a pulsing need.

Jake didn't hesitate. He was still gripping your hip with one hand, his other wrapping around your waist as he pulled you back against him. There was no more waiting, no more teasing. He was hard and ready, and you could feel it pressed against you, and you were slick and wanting, and you couldn't take it any longer.

With a low, guttural groan, Jake slammed his cock inside your soaked cunt in one motion, causing you both to let out the filthiest sound. 

“fuck, look at you,” jake groaned quietly, fingers spreading your ass apart. “such a filthy little thing, huh? letting me use that pussy mouth like it’s all you’re good for.”

his hand is tangled in your hair now, not tugging—just resting there, warm and heavy, like a crown you’ve earned. you try to stay quiet, knowing that the building has thin walls, spit pooling and dripping down your chin as your rhythm falters under the weight of his words. “Jake, it feels go good—“

“quiet,” he snaps softly, and your lashes flutter as you obey.

good. obedient. ruined.

“that’s it, baby. show me how good you are at taking my cock,” he says, voice almost tender if not for the filth of it. “can’t even breathe right, but you don’t care, do you? you love it too much. love being my perfect little toy.”

you whimper around him, and it makes his hips stutter. his thighs tense.

his control cracks just a little.

“god, you’re so good for me. fuck, baby—so fucking perfect.”

he grits his teeth, hand tightening just slightly in your hair. “no one else gets to see you like this. no one else can. only me.”

your jaw aches. your throat burns. but still, you don’t stop. “this pussy is made for me,” he continued, throwing his head back. “Fucking made for me yn.”

Jake was losing control, his words coming out in sharp breaths. He'd never spoken to you like this before, never so openly, so shamelessly filthy. Your mind was reeling, the sensations overwhelming as he took what he wanted from you, his words only fueling your own desire.

“J-Jake- too much.” you whisper cry to him. He giggles a bit, only looking at you the whole time. “And you love it.” he grabs onto your waist gently. 

You help fuck yourself on him a bit faster and he lets out a groan. “You’re so tight around me.. y/n..” he thinks he hasn’t stretched you out enough beforehand. “We can.. do it..” you say, already out of breath.

You spread your legs a bit more, releasing a bit of tension on him. You succeed taking on his big cock, whilst using his shoulders as handles. “You’re taking it so good..” he whispers. You go faster at his praises.

He’s been stretching you out for a while now, and it definitely got easier over time. The slight discomfort turned into satisfying pleasure for you. His swollen tip hits your g-spot every single time, making you want to cum right there. However, he’s been wanting to finish ever since you started. You feel so good wrapped around him he’s surprised he hasn’t let out any further moan yet. 

His hips move faster again, getting closer to cumming again. Your puffy cunt is crying at this point, while you let out a slight moan with every thrust. You keep going for a bit before, before rolling your eyes back to cum. “I’m�� gonna… I… oh m… Jake..” you struggle. 

You don’t get to say anything—your body gives out before your voice can even catch up. Your thighs tremble around him, and you’re a mess in his lap, clinging to him like he’s the only thing grounding you. The sound you let out is raw, louder than before, and Jake just leans back in his chair, watching you fall apart with that smug, wrecked grin of his.

His hands tighten around your waist, keeping you moving even as your body begs for mercy. He’s not letting go—not yet.

“You’re not done,” he mutters low against your throat, lips brushing your skin. “Not until I say so.”

You try to respond, but it’s all heat and haze now. Your chest presses against his as your head drops to his shoulder, and he doesn’t stop—he guides you through every slow grind, every twitch of your body that draws another gasp from your lips. His voice is rough, breathless, right in your ear.

Then his body jerks beneath you, and the way he holds you after—tight, possessive—tells you everything you need to know. His hand slides up your back as you both sit there, the room thick with the aftermath, your bodies still tangled.

You think it’s over. You think maybe now he’ll let you breathe.

But then his grip shifts, and he pulls you right back down onto him, your body jolting at the sudden contact.

A gasp leaves you, and his laugh—low and dangerous—rumbles against your collarbone. “Still so sensitive,” he teases, brushing your hair back as he presses a kiss just below your ear. “Thought you could handle me.”

Your arms drape around his neck again, head buried against his skin, and all you can do is hold on. You kiss the sweat-slicked curve of his jaw, trying to catch your breath while he stays buried deep, unmoving, content to just keep you there—full, overwhelmed, and completely his.

And with one hand still steady on your hip, Jake casually slides his chair back toward his desk, like it’s just another night—like you’re not still trembling on top of him.

Just before he grabs his headset, he whispers, “You should hear yourself.”

By the time you got back to class Monday morning, it was like nothing had ever happened. Or at least, that’s how Jake made it seem.

There he was, slouched in his usual seat at the back of the lecture hall, hoodie half-zipped, glasses perched slightly crooked on the bridge of his nose. He was typing away at his laptop like he hadn’t just had you moaning his name into the crook of his neck two nights ago, skin flushed, bodies tangled.

He glanced up as you walked in. His eyes found yours for a second too long—and then he looked away, pretending to be distracted by something on his screen. You swore you saw the corner of his mouth twitch, like he was fighting a smile.

You took your seat a few rows ahead of him, and a minute later, you felt the faintest buzzin your pocket.

“I had fun.”

You turned around. He was staring at his laptop like he hadn’t just texted you that. Like he hadn’t just ruined you on that same voice he used to answer class questions with a stutter.

Jake was still quiet in public, still awkward. He still pushed up his glasses too often and knocked over his water bottle when reaching for his pen. But now, there was a glint in his eyes every time he looked at you. A silent smugness. A private joke only the two of you knew the punchline to.

And when your professor called on him to answer a question, and he stumbled over the words “data structure,” turning slightly pink, you thought—no one else in this room had a clue. No one knew that he’d whispered “stay still for me” against your skin like a command. That the same clumsy guy blushing in front of the class had told you with a dark smirk, “such a good girl, you took me so well.”

You looked over your shoulder again. Jake met your eyes, and this time, he didn’t look away. Just popped a piece of gum into his mouth, chewing slow, gaze steady. And then he winked.

You almost dropped your pen.

You tried to keep it to yourself—you really did. But your friends had spent the last ten minutes at your table giggling over Jake like he was some weird cryptid.

“I checked his Instagram again,” Yuna said, sipping her iced coffee. “He lost a follower. And he posted a blurry picture of a squirrel once.”

“Do you think he even knows how to use Instagram?” Soojin added, snorting. “He gives off ‘my mom made this account for me’ energy.”

You bit your lip, trying not to smile too hard.

“What?” Yuna asked, eyes narrowing at you. “Why are you smiling like that? Don’t tell me you actually think he’s hot.”

“I don’t think he’s hot,” you said slowly, stirring your drink.

They leaned in.

You sighed, leaning back in your seat, glancing over your shoulder out of habit.

“Okay,” you whispered. “This doesn’t leave this table.”

Yuna and Soojin practically vibrated with anticipation.

“I went to his dorm,” you started, voice low. “A few nights ago. His roommate was gone. And he wasn’t wearing glasses. He had contacts in. And he—” you hesitated, heartbeat picking up. “He was acting completely differnt. And we kinda.. you know.”

Yuna let out a dramatic gasp. “No way.”

Soojin cackled. “Shut up. Jake? Jake Sim and y/n fucked?”

You nodded slowly, lips twitching.

“And?” Yuna prompted. “And? What, did he trip over his desk accidentally slip his dick into you?”

You hesitated. “We, uh… no…”

Both of their jaws dropped—and then they burst into laughter.

“No, no, you’re joking,” Soojin said, leaning into Yuna for support. “Jake? Jake had you—what, bent over his gaming chair while his twelve Instagram followers cheered him on?”

“I’m serious,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “He’s not—he’s not how you think he is. Not when we’re alone.”

“Okay, now you’re just making it sound like he’s Batman,” Yuna snorted. “By day, he’s a bio major with a screen protector on his calculator. By night—”

“Hey.” A voice cut in behind you.

You froze.

Yuna’s eyes widened.

Soojin slapped a hand over her mouth.

You turned your head slowly—Jake was standing there, tray in hand, his expression unreadable. His glasses were on, hoodie loose, hair a little messy like he’d just rolled out of bed.

“Hi,” he said, voice calm, like he hadn’t just caught you mid-confession.

You blinked up at him. “Jake.”

He looked at your friends, then back at you. “You forgot your charger last night.”

He placed it next to your drink, eyes flicking down to your hand for half a second.

“Thanks,” you said, voice quiet.

Jake gave you a lazy smile—barely there, but you knew it. You knew that look now. He turned, walked away like nothing happened, headphones already around his neck.

You turned back to your friends.

Their mouths were hanging open.

“…You’re not joking,” Yuna said flatly.

“I told you,” you whispered, trying—and failing—to hide the grin pulling at your lips.

Your friends were still frozen, processing, as Jake walked off toward the other end of the café like he hadn’t just detonated a bomb and left you to deal with the aftermath. He didn’t look back, but the slow, smug drag of his steps made it very clear—he knew exactly what he was doing.

“I…” Yuna blinked. “Was that your charger?”

You nodded, sipping your drink to hide your smirk.

Soojin finally found her voice. “Did he say last night?”

You nodded again, this time a little slower.

Both of them let out the most synchronized gasps you’d ever heard in your life.

“Girl,” Yuna whispered, leaning across the table like she was afraid someone would overhear, “what the hell is going on? That’s not even—Jake? Like, Jake Sim? He’s—he’s a meme. We literally made a Bingo card of the number of times he trips in the hallway!”

“Yeah,” you said, unable to stop the warmth in your cheeks. “And apparently, he’s also capable of blowing my back out while explaining the difference between RAM and ROM.”

Soojin shrieked. “Stop!”

You were laughing now, the kind that bubbles up and won’t stop. It was ridiculous. All of it. And yet, every time you thought about the way he kissed you—like he knew what he was doing, like he’d been waiting for the right moment to show you—you felt your knees threaten to give out.

“Okay,” Yuna said, gripping your arm. “So, wait. Is he, like… your boyfriend now? Or is this just an elite phase?”

You opened your mouth—then closed it again.

You hadn’t even thought that far.

Jake hadn’t said anything official. No labels. No talks. Just quiet texts. A stolen charger. A wink in lecture. And the memory of him whispering in your ear, voice low and breathless, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“I don’t know,” you admitted honestly. “But I don’t think this is just a one-time thing.”

At that exact moment, your phone buzzed again.

“also, I meant every word I said to you”

Your head snapped up. Across the room, Jake was seated with his laptop open, headset slung around his neck, biting into a sandwich like the most innocent man alive.

Your stomach flipped.

This menace. This liar. This actor.

Your thumbs hovered over the screen, a mix of embarrassment and fondness curling in your chest.

“you’re actually evil”

“i hate you”

“i hate that i don’t hate you”

A beat passed.

“you’re cute when you fluster. wanna come over after chem?”

Your friends didn’t even need to ask who you were texting. They saw your face and groaned in unison.

And for once, you didn’t even deny it.

Jake was a master of the double life. You didn’t know how he did it, but it was like he could flip a switch whenever he stepped foot in the hallways of the university.

In class? A complete disaster.

The shy, bumbling guy you’d always seen—his glasses slipping down his nose, tripping over his own feet as he made his way to his desk. He’d stammer when he spoke to the professor, barely making eye contact with anyone, and was always the first to look down at his phone when group discussions came up. The Jake everyone saw was awkward, quiet, and somehow endearing in his nerdy way. The one who sat by himself in the cafeteria, fiddling with his notebook, hoping no one would notice him.

And yet, you knew. You knew there was something more beneath that awkward exterior. Something darker, something confident. You’d seen it for yourself, just two nights ago. The quiet guy who barely spoke a word in class had turned into a completely different person behind closed doors.

But here, in the hallway, between classes, you wouldn’t have been able to guess that same Jake was the one who had you shivering under his touch, whispering praises into your ear like he owned you.

You were walking past his usual spot in the library when you caught him fumbling with a stack of books, his face scrunched up in concentration. He didn’t notice you at first, too focused on his task. But when he looked up, the usual blush crept up his neck, and his mouth opened, but no words came out.

“Hi,” you said casually, a teasing grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You need help with those?”

He gave a nervous laugh, adjusting his glasses and dropping the books onto the table like his hands suddenly didn’t know how to hold them anymore. “Uh, yeah, no, I—um, I got it. Thanks, though.”

You could barely contain your laughter. Here he was, this guy who had literally whispered praises in your ear only days ago, looking like a total mess in front of you. He couldn’t even manage eye contact without turning an embarrassing shade of pink.

“So,” you said, leaning against the bookshelf beside him, your arms casually crossed. “You been doing any more squirrel photography lately?”

Jake froze, his face flushing deeper. “Uh, n-no,” he stammered, grabbing his books a little too quickly. “I— I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It was like watching a completely different person. Gone was the guy who had held you close, kissed you with authority. Gone was the guy who made you forget everything when his lips were on your neck. Now, he was just a bumbling mess, avoiding your eyes, looking everywhere but at you.

“You’re so weird,” you teased lightly. “You know, I’ve been wondering… is it really the glasses, or is it the awkwardness? Which one is the real you?”

Jake opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He just looked at you, a mixture of embarrassment and—was that a hint of guilt? Like he had a secret he didn’t want anyone to know.

“Never mind,” you said with a smirk, walking away from him. “Keep up the good work, loser.”

You could feel him watching you, probably frozen in place, but you didn’t care. It was almost unbelievable how different he could act when it was just the two of you alone in a room. The guy who couldn’t make it through a simple conversation in public had turned into the man who made you forget your own name when he had his hands on you.

But for now, all you could do was shake your head and laugh, marveling at how Jake was pulling off his double life—completely clueless and completely in control, all at once.

The cafeteria went silent the moment you walked past your usual table and headed straight for his.

Jake was sitting alone, as usual—tray of barely-touched food in front of him, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands like he was trying to disappear into himself. He was hunched over his phone, earbuds in, completely unaware of the social earthquake that was about to hit.

You plopped down across from him without warning.

His head snapped up. He blinked, startled. “Wh—uh… hey?”

Conversations around you dipped, and you could feel the whispers starting. Not subtle ones either. Real, full-body turns. Eyes darting. Forks pausing mid-air. People whispering you’re joking, is that Y/N? and she’s sitting with him?

You just smiled, opening your drink like this was the most normal thing in the world. “Relax,” you said, lowering your voice and leaning forward just a little. “You’re acting like I just declared war on the entire social order.”

He pushed his glasses up and blinked a few times. “You… you don’t usually—uh, sit here.”

“Nope,” you said, popping the ‘p’. “But today I felt like sitting with my favorite academic weapon slash secret menace.”

Jake choked on his water.

You grinned. “Also, I think I’ve figured you out.”

He swallowed hard. “F-Figured me out?”

“Yup.” You tilted your head at him, keeping your voice low and teasing. “I think your glasses are what activate your awkward personality. Like a switch. You wear them? Jake the human embodiment of a shy turtle. You take them off? Boom. Total menace.”

His ears turned pink. He scratched the back of his neck, trying to look casual but failing completely. “They’re prescription…”

“And yet they’re also your disguise,” you smirked.

Around you, the buzz of conversation slowly picked back up. Everyone was still sneaking glances, but they were getting bored now that you weren’t making out on the table or confessing your love with a boombox overhead. One by one, people returned to their own lunches.

And that’s when he looked up at you—and really looked.

The second your audience was gone, the timid act melted off his face like it had never existed. His back straightened. His expression shifted, eyes sharpening just a little, mouth tugging into that familiar slow smirk that made your stomach flip.

“You like the glasses?” he asked, voice lower now, smooth and lazy.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden switch.

He leaned forward on his elbows, gaze steady and annoyingly smug. “You think that’s what keeps me from bending you over this table right now?”

You nearly choked on your drink.

“There’s the menace,” you muttered, eyes narrowing as your pulse spiked.

Jake smiled like he’d just won something. “You came to my table, remember?”

“And now I’m questioning everything.”

He laughed under his breath, picking up a fry from his tray and tossing it into his mouth like he had all the time in the world.

“Too late,” he said, chewing. “You already made your choice. Better hope no one figures out what I look like without the glasses.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Are you threatening me?”

He grinned. “I’m warning you.”

And just like that, he went back to sipping his water, glasses slipping again, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. Back to harmless, quiet Jake.

But you knew better now.

So did he.

You were two seconds away from dragging Jake by the collar.

He sat stiffly next to you on the couch, surrounded by your friends, looking like someone who’d just been dropped into a completely foreign dimension. His hoodie was zipped all the way up to his neck, hands tucked into his sleeves, legs pressed together like he was trying to take up the least amount of space possible.

Your friends were trying. God bless them, they were.

“So, Jake,” Yuna said, passing him a slice of pizza. “What are you majoring in again?”

Jake blinked. “Um. Bio.”

Silence.

Soojin tried to jump in. “Cool! Are you doing like, pre-med or something?”

Jake stared at the pizza in his lap like it personally offended him. “No.”

You gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs. He flinched. “I, uh… I just like cells.”

More silence.

You shot him a look.

Jake gave a weak smile. “Cells are nice.”

You excused yourself to the kitchen before your soul could physically leave your body from secondhand embarrassment. Jake followed, like a lost puppy—but once the two of you were out of earshot, you whirled on him.

“Are you serious right now?”

Jake blinked innocently. “What?”

“You’re acting like a scared freshman at their first club meeting. Can you just…” You groaned, tugging him by the sleeve. “Be normal. Be you. The you that had me on my knees last weekend.”

Jake raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You want me to flirt with your friends?”

You narrowed your eyes. “I want you to act like you’re not a socially-anxious squirrel.”

He leaned against the counter with a little too much confidence now. “Babe, I already got what I wanted. I don’t need to charm your friends.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “If you keep acting like a brick wall, I swear to god I’m not giving you head again.”

Jake blinked.

Then he straightened.

“You wouldn’t.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”

There was a moment of silence. He stared at you like you’d just ripped the moon from the sky and thrown it in his face.

And then—he sighed dramatically. “Fine.”

You watched him walk back into the living room, a defeated slump in his shoulders. But right before he sat down again, he glanced back at you and mouthed, rude.

You just smiled sweetly.

You watched him march right back into the living room like a man on a mission. No hoodie shielding his face, no sleeves hiding his hands—Jake dropped onto the couch next to Yuna like he belonged there. Like he hadn’t just been threatening to pretend he didn’t know the English language five minutes ago.

“So,” he said casually, draping one arm along the back of the couch. “Y/N tells me you guys stalked my Instagram.”

Your head snapped up.

Yuna blinked, caught. “W-What?”

Jake smirked. “Twelve followers and still managed to bag your friend. Pretty impressive, right?”

Your jaw dropped.

Soojin choked on her drink.

Yuna looked like she’d just short-circuited.

“I mean, I don’t post thirst traps or anything,” Jake continued, tone light but clearly enjoying himself. “Y/n says I should.”

You were frozen. You hadn’t even known he could talk in complete sentences around your friends, let alone roast them.

He glanced at you mid-sentence, lips twitching. “What? You said be normal.”

“This is not what I meant by normal,” you hissed under your breath.

Jake only smiled wider.

“I mean,” he said louder now, eyes gleaming, “Y/N didn’t really stand a chance. She was obsessed with me from the moment she saw me trip over a recycling bin.”

You stared at him, half-horrified, half-impressed. The duality of this man was actually insane.

“You’re the worst,” you muttered, but your voice was shaking with barely contained laughter.

He leaned back on the couch, one leg crossed over the other like he’d been doing this all his life. “I prefer ‘underrated.’”

Soojin blinked at you, stunned. “Is this the same Jake?”

“Sadly,” you deadpanned.

Jake stretched his arms overhead, smirking like he’d just won something. “Told you. Glasses on—loser. Glasses off?” He looked at you over the rim of his drink. “Problem.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

Because he was right.

The conversation shifted, but Jake didn’t shrink back like he normally would. In fact, he leaned in. Tossed out a few sarcastic remarks, made a joke about the weird guy in your chem lecture, and even stole a fry off Yuna’s plate like he’d known her for years.

You sat there stunned, barely able to process the whiplash of it all.

At one point, Soojin gave you a look—eyebrows raised, lips parted like girl…—and you just blinked back, equally bewildered.

Jake caught the exchange, of course. He always did. He leaned over toward you, his voice dropping low, just for you to hear.

“Still mad at me?” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You didn’t look at him. “You’re skating on very thin ice.”

He chuckled softly. “You threatening me again?”

You smirked, finally glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “I don’t threaten, Jake. I warn.”

That seemed to only encourage him. “You know I love when you talk like that.”

You elbowed him under the table, but he didn’t even flinch—just grinned like the menace he was.

Eventually, your friends began packing up their things, saying goodbye, and heading out one by one. Jake stayed close beside you, still riding the high of finally breaking his “awkward loner” act in public.

As the room cleared, he bumped your shoulder lightly. “So… did I do good?”

You stared at him. “You did too good.”

He raised a brow, amused. “Jealous?”

“No,” you scoffed, gathering your stuff. “More like terrified of the monster I just unleashed.”

Jake slung his bag over his shoulder, his grin never fading. “Told you. You’re the one who wanted me to be social. You made this happen.”

You paused at the doorway, giving him a long look. “You’re still not getting head tonight.”

He laughed, following close behind you. “Liar.”

God help you—he was right again.

Jake walked you back to your dorm with a bounce in his step, like he hadn’t just caused a minor social earthquake in your friend group. You kept glancing over at him, trying to find even a trace of the shy, fumbling version of him your friends had always known—but nope. Gone. Completely replaced by this smug, way-too-proud-of-himself creature strutting beside you like he’d just won an Oscar.

“You seriously said ‘bagged your friend,’” you muttered, shaking your head.

Jake shrugged, completely unapologetic. “I was being honest.”

“You’re impossible.”

He smirked, leaning closer so his shoulder bumped yours. “But you love me anyway.”

Your heart did a weird little skip, but you masked it with a scoff. “Mm, debatable.”

He laughed, but you could tell he noticed the way your ears flushed. Jake always noticed. Which made it all the more dangerous when he decided to push.

“You sure?” he said lowly, glancing at you sideways. “Because if I remember correctly, few nights ago you were practically begging—”

You slapped a hand over his mouth before he could finish. “Don’t you dare say that sentence out loud.”

Jake’s laughter vibrated against your palm, and he licked it just to be annoying.

“Jake!”

“What?” he said, completely unbothered, mouth curling into that damn smile again. “I’m just saying, you seemed pretty in love with me when you were—”

“I swear to god, I won’t let you cum tonight.”

He grinned. “Still wouldn’t change what happened on my desk.”

You groaned, unlocking your door and stepping inside, not even bothering to push him out. He followed like he lived there, already dropping his bag on your floor and toeing off his shoes.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” you muttered, tossing your jacket on the chair, “but I kinda miss socially awkward Jake.”

Jake leaned against your desk—the very one he had completely ruined you on—crossing his arms with a smug tilt of his head.

“I’ll bring him back next time we’re around your friends,” he said sweetly. “Wouldn’t want to scare anyone.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re the worst.”

He took a slow step toward you. “And yet…”

You backed up until the backs of your knees hit your bed. Jake caged you in without touching you, just that cocky little smirk inches from your mouth.

“…you keep letting me in.”

Your breath hitched.

You hated how right he was.

He didn’t even have to touch you—just standing there, close enough to fog up your brain, was enough to make your breath catch. That same smug little smirk tugged at the corner of his lips like he knew. (And he did. He always did.)

You crossed your arms, trying to look unaffected. “We’re not doing anything tonight.”

Jake tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Didn’t say we were.”

“You were thinking it.”

He grinned. “Can’t a guy hang out with his girlfriend without being accused of crimes?”

You blinked. “Your what?”

Jake froze for half a second—just enough to catch it—then played it off with a shrug, looking entirely too casual. “You. My girlfriend.”

“Jake,” you said slowly, “we haven’t even been on a date yet.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Okay, and?”

You stared at him.

He held your gaze, deadpan. “We’ve had sex on your desk.”

Your mouth opened, then shut again. He just kept going.

“I’ve had my tongue in you. Multiple times. You think a coffee date is gonna make it moreofficial?”

You smacked his shoulder, cheeks burning. “You’re insane.”

Jake smiled, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist. “You’re stuck with me now. Might as well give me the title.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hands found the hem of his hoodie anyway, fingers curling there.

“This better not mean I have to start posting you on my story.”

“Oh no,” he teased. “Anything but that.”

You sighed. “Fine. One date. But you’re planning it.”

Jake smirked, already way too pleased with himself. “Good. I was gonna make you fall in love with me anyway.”

It became… a problem.

First it was your friends catching you two making out in the library stacks. Then it was the quad. Then the empty art building stairwell. At one point, Yuna dramatically threatened to carry a spray bottle in her bag just to spritz you both like misbehaving cats.

You tried to tone it down. Really. But Jake had this stupid, unfair ability to get under your skin with just one look. One whisper. One brush of his hand against your lower back when no one was watching.

And then there was the incident. The one no one dared to speak about—but everyone knew.

You’d followed Jake into the men’s washroom between lectures, heart pounding, brain nowhere near your upcoming lab. One minute you were teasing him red, leaking tip with minor kitty licks, the next—A very unfortunate and traumatized TA walked in at the exact wrong time.

To this day, you’re not sure who was more horrified: you, Jake, or the TA who immediately did a full 180 and walked straight back out without a word.

Jake couldn’t stop laughing. You couldn’t show your face in that building for a week.

Now every time you pass that hallway, he leans in with a whisper and a smug, “Wanna relive the glory days?”

You elbow him. Hard. But your ears still burn.

Because the worst part? You absolutely do.

You hadn’t even had a chance to settle into the cozy atmosphere of a movie night with Jake, Sunghoon, and Sunoo before everything went to hell.

It was supposed to be a simple night. You, Jake, and his friends, chilling on the couch, watching some random movie Sunghoon picked out after a few too many awkward silences. You’d been mentally preparing yourself for this, maybe even looking forward to getting to know his friends better. You’d heard so much about them, and Sunoo had been sending you memes for weeks now, always so sweet and teasing.

But instead of a normal movie night, you ended up on Jake’s lap with your lips pressed to his, unable to hold back as he slipped his hands beneath your hoodie. Your fingers were tangled in his hair, and you completely forgot about the stupid film Sunghoon had started. All that mattered was the heat building between you and Jake, the sound of his breath against your mouth, the way he was slowly getting bolder, moving his lips to your neck—

And then, the unmistakable sound of a throat clearing from across the room.

You froze, eyes widening, and pulled back from Jake just as Sunghoon and Sunoo exchanged awkward glances.

“Well,” Sunghoon said, adjusting his glasses with a little too much casualness, “This is… an interesting way to start a movie night.”

You sat up quickly, heart racing. “We—uh, we weren’t—”

Sunoo cut you off with a laugh that had a slightly knowing edge to it. “Don’t worry, I’ve seen worse. But wow, didn’t think I’d be walking in on this so soon.”

You could feel your face heating up, but Jake, the menace, only smirked, his arm still casually draped around you. “I was just showing her how comfortable the couch is. Isn’t it nice, babe?”

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow at that, glancing between you two. “Comfortable, huh? Good to know.”

Sunoo chuckled. “I guess I’m glad we finally got a front-row seat to Jake’s ‘split personality.’” His voice dropped to an exaggerated whisper, adding, “Who knew the shy, awkward guy could get so… intense.”

You looked at Jake, whose eyes were practically glowing with mischief. You knew exactly what that meant.

“I told you guys,” Jake said, sliding his fingers through your hair, his voice low and smooth. “She’s got me wrapped around her finger. Not just with the whole ‘studious boyfriend’ act.”

Sunghoon chuckled and shook his head. “I’m just here for the popcorn, but whatever you guys are doing, you’re definitely ruining the vibe of the movie.”

You swore you could feel the heat radiating from your face, but Jake was entirely too smug, his hand never leaving your waist. “Movie’s overrated anyway,” he said with a wink. “Better company right here.”

The tension in the room was palpable, but somehow, you knew this was just the beginning. Jake wasn’t about to stop teasing you in front of his friends, and now they definitely knew what he was like when he wasn’t playing the quiet, shy guy.

It had been exactly one month since you and Jake made things official, and somewhere along the way, he had somehow charmed all your friends.

Yuna, especially.

What started off as teasing glances and snarky comments turned into him greeting her with “What’s up, my other girl?” in front of literally everyone—like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You’d laughed the first time. Sort of.

The second time, your smile was tight.

By the third, you didn’t even look at him. Just turned around, grabbed your bag, and left without a word. The silence that followed was deafening.

He texted. Called. Showed up at your dorm with snacks, guilty puppy-dog eyes, and one of your hoodies you’d accidentally left at his place.

You didn’t budge.

Not when he spammed you with voice memos or when he got Sunoo to send you dramatic apologies on his behalf. Not even when Yuna told you that Jake had asked herhow to fix it, which was ironic in the most painful way possible.

A week passed. You were starting to miss him—his touch, his stupid jokes, the way he looked at you like you hung stars in his sky—but you were petty, and prideful, and notabout to forgive him over something as dumb as a nickname that made your stomach twist.

But Jake knew you. And Jake never lost.

The night you finally gave in, he showed up to your dorm without a word, eyes dark, hands careful. He didn’t ask if he could stay. Just got down on his knees, pulled you to the edge of the bed, and showed you how sorry he was.

You didn’t even realize your fingers were tangled in his hair, hips shaking as he flicked your clit around with his tongue, breath caught somewhere between a moan and a sob.

By the time he looked up, lips swollen, pupils blown wide, your legs were trembling and you couldn’t remember what planet you were on.

“Still mad at me?” he asked, voice hoarse, a little smug, but mostly sincere.

You tried to speak, failed. All you could do was blink down at him.

He kissed the inside of your thigh. “Good. Because you’re my only girl.”

And yeah—he won. Again.

The next morning, Jake acted like nothing happened.

He was sprawled across your tiny dorm bed, hair a mess, hoodie half-off his shoulder, munching on the cereal you kept strictly for late-night study stress. Like he hadn’t just given you an out-of-body experience twelve hours ago.

You stood at the mirror brushing your hair, shooting him a look through the reflection. “You’re really just gonna sit there like you didn’t have me literally sobbing last night?”

Jake grinned around a spoonful of cereal. “I figured you forgave me when you couldn’t feel your legs after.”

You tossed a hair tie at him. He dodged, laughing.

“You’re lucky I didn’t call you a cab,” you said, turning back around.

“I am lucky,” he said, voice lower now, more serious, “but not just for that.”

You paused. Met his eyes.

Jake set the bowl aside and stood up, crossing the room to wrap his arms around your waist from behind. His chin rested on your shoulder, voice soft. “I’m sorry for the Yuna thing. I thought I was being funny. I didn’t realize it hurt you.”

You didn’t respond right away. He held you tighter.

“You know I only want you, right?”

You nodded, finally. “You’re still an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “But I’m your idiot.”

You rolled your eyes, but leaned into him anyway, the tension finally melting.

Later that day, Yuna raised an eyebrow as you walked into the café together, hand-in-hand with Jake.

“Back from the dead?” she teased.

Jake smirked. “Had to perform a little resurrection.”

You buried your face in your drink. Yuna just laughed.

“Oh god,” she muttered. “Don’t tell me it was head.”

Jake shot her a look. “Mind-blowing head.”

You choked.

“Please stop speaking,” you begged.

Jake just kissed your cheek and pulled you closer.

You really were doomed.

You’d completely forgotten your parents were in town until you got the text while Jake was still whispering absolute filth into your ear in the café line.

[Mom]: Just landed. So excited to see you, sweetie! Brunch tomorrow? Bring your boyfriend!

You choked on your iced americano so violently Jake had to pat your back.

“Everything okay?” he asked, smirking like he already knew it wasn’t.

You turned your phone around to show him the message.

He blinked. “Wait. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Like—your parents tomorrow?”

“Yes, Jake. My parents. Brunch. You. Me. And them.”

He stared at you for a full three seconds, then grinned. “I’ve already got the button-up shirt in mind.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re way too calm about this.”

“I’m amazing with parents.”

“You’re amazing at pretending to be someone’s quiet, innocent boyfriend. That’s not the same.”

Jake leaned in, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Don’t worry, baby. They’ll love me.”

“You’re gonna wear your glasses, right?”

“Obviously.”

“Act like you’ve never touched me.”

“Sweetheart, I’ll act like I don’t even know what a woman is.”

You snorted, already stressed. “This is going to be a disaster.”

Jake pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Nah. I’m gonna charm them. Just like I charmed you.”

You turned to give him a look. “You charmed me by blowing my back out in a library storage room, Jake.”

“Exactly,” he said, way too proud.

You groaned.

Tomorrow could not come fast—or end—soon enough.

The next morning, Jake showed up ten minutes early to your dorm, looking like he’d walked straight out of a K-drama.

Crisp white button-up, hair brushed neatly off his forehead, his glasses perfectly in place—he even brought your mom’s favorite pastries, like he’d been studying your family’s group chat for weeks.

“You look…” You blinked, slowly dragging your gaze down his outfit. “So well-behaved.”

Jake smirked, tucking the pastry box under one arm and reaching for your hand. “Don’t worry. I left the demon version of me in your sheets.”

You nearly tripped on the way out the door.

Your parents were already waiting at the little brunch spot downtown, and as soon as your mom saw you, she lit up—then caught sight of Jake behind you and blinked like she was seeing a puppy dressed in a tuxedo.

“This is Jake?” she asked, already halfway through hugging him. “You’re even cuter than she said!”

Jake laughed, soft and shy, adjusting his glasses. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s really nice to meet you.”

You sat stiffly across from them, fully prepared for the absolute chaos that was surely coming, but Jake? He played the role like he’d been training for it all his life.

He complimented your mom’s earrings. Asked your dad smart, boring questions about work. Even waited until you were done speaking before cutting into his food.

It was unsettling.

“Jake’s in my organic chem lecture,” you said at one point, trying to keep the conversation neutral.

“Oh, is he any good?” your dad asked.

Jake smiled bashfully. “She usually tutors me, actually. I’m a bit hopeless when it comes to chemistry.”

You almost choked on your orange juice.

Your mom beamed. “I love that. I always told her she’d be such a good teacher.”

Jake nodded sincerely, resting his hand on your knee under the table, subtle and grounding. “She’s been teaching me a lot.”

Your stomach flipped for a very different reason.

By the end of brunch, your mom was begging him to come over for dinner “next time we visit,” and your dad gave him a shoulder pat like he’d just been accepted into the family.

As soon as you were out of earshot, walking back toward campus, you smacked his arm. “You manipulative little bitch!”

Jake grinned, holding up the box of leftover pastries like a trophy. “They love me.”

“You were lying through your teeth!”

Jake shrugged. “It’s not lying if I really do think you’re amazing at teaching me things. Like patience. Self-control.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re a menace.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping in close, voice low in your ear, “your mom just called me boyfriend material.”

You shoved him. “You are never seeing my parents again.”

“Sure, baby. You tell yourself that.”

And yeah, fine—he was boyfriend material. Just not the kind your parents had any idea about.

That night, you laid in bed scrolling through your messages while Jake sat cross-legged at the foot, shamelessly eating the last of the leftover pastries your mom had insisted he take.

Your phone buzzed again.

[Mom]: He’s adorable. Polite, smart, and that accent?? Keeper.

You rolled your eyes so hard your soul almost left your body.

Jake leaned over your shoulder. “What’d she say now?”

You turned the screen toward him. He read it, then bit into a croissant like he’d just won a championship.

“I am polite. And smart. And my voice is sexy, apparently.”

You deadpanned. “You’re a literal demon. With glasses.”

Jake leaned down and nuzzled against your neck with the fakest innocence he could muster. “You weren’t saying that when I was—”

You slapped a hand over his mouth. “No. My mom said ‘keeper.’ Don’t make me reevaluate.”

He laughed into your palm, biting it lightly before you yanked it back. He flopped onto the bed beside you, stretching out with a satisfied sigh like he’d just wrapped up a performance of a lifetime.

“I could get used to this,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded. “Winning over your friends, seducing your parents…”

“Manipulating the entire population,” you muttered.

Jake turned his head, smirking. “But only for you.”

You tried not to melt. You really did. But then he pulled you down beside him, arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you into the warm curve of his body.

“You know,” he whispered, voice dropping back into that cocky, devastating register, “your parents think I’m this sweet, respectful, glasses-wearing boyfriend who can’t even pass chem without your help.”

You blinked up at him, breath catching.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “And they’ll never know what their daughter sounds like when she’s underneath me, begging.”

You slapped his chest with a muffled laugh, face buried in his shirt. “You’re the worst.”

Jake just grinned against your temple.

“I’m yours.”

The next morning, Jake was already pulling on his hoodie, his bags—stuffed with random clothes, books, and a few things that had slowly found their way into your dorm—strewn across your floor.

You sat up in bed, the lingering warmth of his body beside you still making your heart flutter. It had become a regular thing now—Jake staying over, bringing more of his things each time, settling into a routine that felt strangely comfortable. It was a mixture of affection and chaos, and you loved every minute of it.

“You should’ve just left your stuff here last night,” you teased, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “Could’ve saved us the trouble.”

Jake smirked, looking up from rummaging through his backpack. “Don’t want to seem too comfortable too soon, babe. You know, I’ve still got that mysterious ‘bad boy’ act to keep up.”

You rolled your eyes. “Uh-huh. Sure. That’s what you’re going for.”

He shot you a wink, tossing a hoodie at you. “Anyway, can’t let the world see the ‘good boy’ too much, can I?”

He was back to his cocky self, the guy who showed up to school acting like the confident, teasing Jake you had come to know, and honestly, you couldn’t help but smile at how effortlessly he flipped between his personas.

You both left the dorm and started the walk to campus, his hand in yours, the usual mix of comfortable silence and random teasing that filled your daily routines.

Just as you were about to walk up the steps to your building, Jake, always the graceful disaster, tripped on the stairs and sent his coffee flying across the sidewalk.

“Are you serious?” you asked, blinking in disbelief.

Jake stood there for a second, coffee splattered all over his hoodie and the ground beneath him, looking utterly stunned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You couldn’t stop laughing. “Every time. I swear to god, you’re like a walking disaster.”

Jake turned to you, the faintest blush coloring his cheeks as he scratched the back of his neck, trying to play it off. “I meant to do that. Just making sure everyone’s paying attention.”

“Yeah, you definitely got their attention, Jake,” you teased. “Don’t worry, I’m sure everyone saw your epic performance.”

He shot you a grin, wiping at his clothes like it would make a difference. “I’m not a loser. I’m just… trying to get a reaction.”

“And you definitely got one,” you snorted, taking his hand and leading him inside.

Even though he tried to play it off as cool, the truth was, you were starting to see a side of Jake that was a little more… normal than you first expected.

And as ridiculous as the whole thing was, there was something about it—the balance of confident teasing and hilarious clumsiness—that felt right.

At least, for you and him, it did.

You nudged him with your elbow. “You gonna be okay, or do I need to get you another one before you wither away in front of me?”

Jake groaned dramatically. “I needed that caffeine. My whole personality relies on it.”

You laughed as you pushed open the lecture hall doors. “Your personality is currently soaked into your hoodie.”

Unfortunately for Jake, your shared class had already started to fill up. A few people looked up as you both walked in—him with wet coffee splatter down his front, you trying not to laugh loud enough for the whole room to hear.

“Is that Jake Sim?” someone whispered behind you.

You heard a snort. “Why does he look like someone’s intern who just got fired?”

Jake sat down beside you with a huff, dropping his bag and whispering, “This is the most humbling morning of my life.”

You rached over, wiped a little splatter off his sleeve, and leaned close. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He blinked at you, caught off guard. “Wait. You think I’m cute even like this?”

You grinned. “I think you’re cute especially like this.”

Jake slumped in his chair, defeated but amused. “I’m literally a walking split personality. Demon boyfriend at night, clumsy nerd by morning. This isn’t sustainable.”

“You say that like I’m not completely obsessed with both versions.”

He paused, looking at you with that soft, wide-eyed gaze he got when you caught him off guard.

“Yeah?” he said, quieter this time.

You nodded, bumping your knee against his. “Yeah.”

Jake smiled down at his ruined coffee cup.

“Still not over the fact I tripped in front of like thirty people though,” he muttered, and you snorted so loud the row in front of you turned around.

At least now, everyone knew—Jake Sim might’ve been a quiet loser to the rest of the campus, but to you?

He was everything.

perm taglist: @kristynaaah @firstclassjaylee @chvconn3 @wonzzziezzzz @sheseung @blvengene @gvtdoll @a3r4-for3ver @sunghoon-cam @luvksnn @aaaaarmiiiiin @blckorchidd @gyulune @marimariiisblog @pinknjm @bloomiize

[sick-as-a-dog]

.

[riaki]

i literally cant stop thinkin’ about highschoolbully!gojo who used to be your ride or die ‘til he started getting attention from those popular jock type guys who are always assholes to everyone. and him being.. well, him means he preens under attention no matter who it’s from, so naturally he started to gravitate towards that group and their little troop of cheerleading fangirls. and then he started distancing from you and without either of you really realizing it, you’ve slipped between the other’s fingers. but the way he acts towards you makes you think he let you fall without moving a muscle to slow you down.

soon enough, a year swings by and by the end of it he’s gone from your life, save as just another face in the gaggle of boys who make crude jokes and laugh at smart kids and pop milk cartoons during lunch just for the hell of it. but you’re minding your own business, ‘cause you’re mature enough to realize that people come and go, no matter how close you might’ve been and you think it’s unfortunate that so many memories could be thrown aside in a blink of an eye, but it makes a lot of sense when you walk past satoru and his friends bullying some random kid. you don’t know him, but you’ve heard enough to realize it’s his girlfriend satoru’s flirting with while his ‘gang’ kick at the kid. and it’s sickening, but you don’t say anything when you walk by.

and when you don’t ever see the kid afterward and catch the dark eyebags under his girlfriend’s eyes, you come to the cruel realization that satoru isn’t the boy who’d bandage the scrape on your knee you got from tripping in the playground or buy you a soda because he’s noticed your sweat when you were walking home and you don’t have any money left on you.

it’s a glass half empty, half full type of situation. on the one hand, you don’t have him anymore. on the other hand, you don’t have him anymore. that is, you lost your best friend, but you’ve also lost someone who has the potential to absolutely ruin your life. and you don’t know whether to be glad or not, so you just mind your own business even if it hurts a little when he ignores you, stops tossing paper at your head in class (unless it’s to embarrass you) and stops walking you to and from school.

but the cherry on top of the shit cake is that he doesn't get it. so when he approaches you in the library one day after satiating the need to tear pages from books and make them into paper airplanes to throw at people, he doesn't seem to understand why you try to ignore him, or put off his attempts to hold a convo. but the worst part is that he's just sleazy and clueless about it. it's like he took an eraser and wiped every single year of your friendship off the chalkboard with one fell swipe, and you wish he'd done that too to the less-than-appropriate messages he and his friends had written towards one of your classmates.

he doesn't understand why you're hesitant to talk, and that's what makes it the worst. he always thinks he's in the right, and he keeps setting you off and it sucks that he knows exactly what sets you off. "i'm an asshole? what're you talking about? really, you're in over your head. you never change." he laughs, and you ignore him, and he gets bored, and he's about to leave when he spots your wallet open next to your book, on the table. there's a polaroid peeking out, and he recognizes the tufts of white hair to be him. but there's a weird feeling in his chest, and he thinks he gets it from you, so he leaves because he thinks you're weird.

and it goes on; you practically become a nobody in satoru's eyes, because of that weird, weird feeling you give him. it's unfamiliar and he's never gotten it before and he doesn't like it. but it's unavoidable when your professor pairs you two for the end-of-term project. and of course, you're ready to do all the work, because that's how it always was between you when you were kids. but sometimes he'd surprise you by helping, and he'd show you that he was actually intelligent just to earn your praise because he liked it. but he ignored you, and you did everything, and it would've been okay if not for his friends egging him on to present your entire project when the day came and leave you with no content for a grade.

that's the first time it hits him: does he really want to do that? but it's not like it'll be the first time; you've always taken the hits for him, because you're naturally smart and you'll pick yourself back up in no time, and you get why he does it, so it'll be okay. so he agrees, and he enjoys the time he gets to spend with you through it, but the nagging weird feeling that blooms in his chest like a pesky weed only grows stronger. that's all his feelings ever seem to do around you.

but before you know it, presentation day swings around. you had coffee this morning (on his card), and you're ready enough to shoot him a small smile that sends his heart a-flutter. so you go up, feeling up to the task and ready until— he starts talking, and talking, and talking, and people don't think that he's taking your words out of your mouth because he's intelligent when he wants to make you praise him and you don't get the chance to get a word in and you notice the guys are laughing and hitting each other's shoulders to themselves in the upper rows and before you know it it's over. people are clapping but moreso they're looking at you and they're whispering— but it's terribly loud and they don't bother to hide it. they call you things that shouldn't bother you but they do anyway, because it's satoru's fault, and you're such a fool for thinking you could have it your way again.

so you leave class early, excusing yourself and ignoring the way your professor gives you a distasteful look and scribbles something next to your name. you're out the door in a second, neglecting your bags and satoru's a little lost because— didn't he just do good? people were clapping, and laughing with him and not at him, but it's attention either way so he doesn't mind. so why do you? why did you look at him like he stabbed you in the back? and his friends are calling his name, and he wishes he could chase after you and do something but he doesn't.

and it's a little sickening what they do next; one of their girls grabbed your bags and tossed it to them, and they've started rifling through it as if they own it, tearing up your shit and dumping everything onto the ground and he's kind of just... glued to the chair by his feelings. his heart feels like it's been patched together and the weird fuzzy feeling he had in his chest that's been cultivating has extinguished to be replaced with something he realizes he's only ever felt when it comes to you— guilt.

he's so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't realize his friend is silently offering him something— nudging his side to get his attention. he takes it without really realizing he moved his hand, and his silent friend with the gauges in his ears and the dark hair gets up and leaves without another word. when satoru looks down, he realizes he's been given your wallet. "the reward for betraying your baby," they call it. like all you're worth is the money in your account.

he's a little curious. that's how he's always been; asking you questions, rummaging through your stuff, laughing sheepishly and shaking it off when you caught him red-handed. so he opens it up, ignoring your sad little cards and the funny look on your license. he's looking for something, subconsciously; but he doesn't find it. there's no white tuft of hair to suggest his presence in your life; just empty black leather. nothing else.

and he doesn't see you after. or the following day. or the following weeks; weeks that turn into months that turn into the end of school and he's graduating but you're not by his side. and neither are his so called 'friends'; the only thing he has to their name is your own ruined friendship. it's a shame; he feels alone. very alone. no fuzzy weird feeling, not even that thing people call guilt. no attention to chase, and connections are ever harder to make. it shouldn'tve mattered that much, right? it was just a presentation. why wouldn't you just come back to him like you always did? were you not still friends...?

but the blood is still on his hands, and he doesn't manage to ever wash it off. guilt has a way of festering; of weighing on the heart 'till there's nothing left to feel or think but unfortunate circumstance and what could've been done differently. it just sucks that he never tried hard enough to keep you from slipping between his grasp. and now, he doesn't even have a polaroid to your friendship's name.

pt.2

[rainydetectiveglitter]

Lilith in the Houses: How You’re Sexualized or Misunderstood

Lilith represents raw, primal energy in your chart, and depending on where it sits, it can cause you to be sexualized or misunderstood. Below, I’ve shared some thoughts on how this placement manifests in each of the houses, along with personal anecdotes where applicable. Keep in mind, this is just my anecdotal evidence, meant for fun.

♈ Lilith in the 1st House Aries

People with Lilith in the 1st house often have an intense, captivating aura. There's something magnetic and fiery about you that can’t be ignored, and others tend to sexualize or focus on your bold, rebellious nature. This placement often gets you misjudged as wild or "bad" simply for being unapologetically yourself.

When I think about this placement, I always think of Tiger King. His sexuality was constantly discussed, and in a weird way, he became this spectacle because of it. It’s also fitting for someone like Michael Jackson—you often see men with this placement with makeup, eyeliner, or other dramatic visuals to showcase that captivating energy. Even though their sexuality isn’t always overt, people seem to be entranced by it anyway.

You might feel that society is always trying to push you into the "wild" or "sexualized" box based on how you express yourself. People either want to put you on a pedestal or demonize you for being strong, assertive, or rebellious.

You may choose to reject or lean into this image, asserting control over how others perceive you. You could even challenge the societal expectations placed on you and fight to redefine who you are in your own terms.

Cultivate a deep connection with yourself—embrace your true essence unapologetically. Learning to set boundaries and validate yourself can help reduce the impact of others’ projections.

♉ Lilith in the 2nd House Taurus

People with Lilith in the 2nd house often find their physical bodies or material possessions sexualized. There's this feeling that others equate your body to your self-worth. People might also judge you based on how you express yourself physically, interpreting your appearance or possessions as tied to your sexual appeal.

I don’t have many people in my life with this placement, but it’s interesting because some people do view their bodies almost like a possession—almost as if they think their value is solely based on what they look like. In other words, what you own or how you look can often become a reflection of your sexual worth.

You may feel that your worth is constantly tied to your looks or the material things you own. This leads to external pressure and the need to fight back against these surface-level judgments.

You might either put your worth into material things or rebel against them altogether, which is a big internal struggle. At times it might be hard to escape being seen only through the lens of external value.

Reconnect to your intrinsic self-worth—focus on building value from within. Learning to separate your identity from your possessions or body helps you reclaim your true sense of self.

♊ Lilith in the 3rd House Gemini

Lilith in the 3rd house can turn communication into a double-edged sword. This placement tends to sexualize the way you talk—your voice, tone, and speech patterns are often perceived as seductive or inappropriate. I have this placement, and people often react to my words or how I speak in ways that are totally unrelated to my intent. It’s not uncommon for people to want to take normal conversations to uncomfortable places like phone sex or sexting, especially in dating scenarios.

I can personally relate to this. When I worked in call centers, I got told time and time again how "attractive" or "sexy" my voice sounded—and sometimes people tried to take it into inappropriate directions. Even in group settings, I was often told that my speaking style made people uncomfortable, even though I wasn’t trying to be sexual at all. I’m not a sexual person in nature, but people still tried to pull me into these conversations based solely on how I spoke.

You’ll notice that people often try to make conversations about you sexual or flirtatious. That misinterpretation, where every word or gesture becomes something charged, can make your day-to-day life more challenging, especially when you’re just speaking freely. You may also have the feeling that you’re often misunderstood in public settings or school/work environments.

You might find yourself either resisting or rejecting these interpretations of your communication style, maybe becoming more reclusive or adjusting your approach altogether to avoid discomfort. There could also be moments when you want to “own” that sexualized persona simply as a defense mechanism, but it’s not who you are.

Own your voice and set clear boundaries in communication. When people misinterpret your words, use it as an opportunity to clarify your intent. Confidence in your language can shield you from unwanted projections.

♋ Lilith in the 4th House Cancer

With Lilith in the 4th house, family and home environments become a space for projected misunderstandings about who you are. Family members may make inappropriate or uncomfortable comments about your body or behavior growing up. As you age, they might even sexualize or misinterpret the way you interact or express yourself, often seeing you as "too grown for your age" or crossing boundaries that shouldn’t be discussed.

Growing up with Lilith in the 4th house, you might hear off-handed comments from family that make you feel uncomfortable about the normal, healthy process of growing up. Your behaviors or growth could be taken the wrong way, as if people have the right to define what’s "appropriate" for you in terms of sexuality. This projection can last into adulthood when family members still impose unrealistic or discomforting expectations on you.

Family projections around your body or sexual expression can affect your sense of self at the core. You may feel like you’re being misread or that your home environment doesn’t fully support your evolving self-expression.

You might challenge your family’s views of you or assert stronger boundaries within the family dynamic. There may be tension in these interactions, as your natural growth challenges their limiting expectations.

Establish healthy boundaries with your family and assert your identity on your terms. Communicating your real feelings with those closest to you, while setting clear boundaries around your development, will help shift those projections.

♌ Lilith in the 5th House Leo

With Lilith in the 5th house, your creativity, sexuality, and enjoyment of life become intertwined. You’ll notice that people often sexualize your playfulness, creative pursuits, and even your flirtatious nature. What should be considered playful or creative can sometimes be twisted into something too sexual, especially if you are expressive about your individuality.

People may only focus on the "fun" aspects of your personality and forget that there's much more depth to you. Your free-spirited, playful side can easily be interpreted as promiscuous or “overly sexual.” You might feel misunderstood for simply enjoying life or for being unapologetic in expressing your individuality.

You may lean into this sexuality for a while, either to match people’s expectations or as a way to cope with it, but it’s important to find the right balance. Embrace your creative freedom, but also be firm with others when it comes to how you express yourself.

Set strong boundaries around your creative energy and personal expression. Help others understand that your essence is more complex than how they try to sexualize you.

♍ Lilith in the 6th House Virgo

With Lilith in the 6th house, your workplace interactions or your approach to health can often be misunderstood. At work, others might project a certain sexualized image onto you, particularly in professional settings where boundaries should be respected. In my experience, I've witnessed situations where a male friend of mine faced sexual harassment, which they often brushed off to maintain peace. He dealt with frequent inappropriate advances and even physical groping from female coworkers, yet felt pressured to “laugh it off” and keep things lighthearted. He moved his things to another area in the office after. It's clear that a misunderstanding of professional boundaries happens with Lilith in this house.

While I don’t have Lilith in the 6th house myself, I’ve seen it firsthand. I believe that this placement can create discomfort when others try to sexualize your approach to work or health matters. It's hard because these boundaries often get crossed by people who don't take your professional image or seriousness into consideration.

The 6th house is about routine, health, and service, but Lilith here creates tension, with people viewing your work or contributions through a lens of desire rather than respect. Whether it’s at work or in a healthcare setting, feeling sexualized or disrespected in such personal areas can make you uncomfortable.

You might try to keep your distance or react by shutting people down, asserting your boundaries and your right to be respected. Or, you might even go the opposite route and become very vocal about defending your space, making sure others understand where you stand.

Work on strengthening your boundaries, especially when it comes to professional or intimate health matters. Practice keeping your environment focused on your work ethic, not your sexuality. Keep things professional and assertive, refusing to let others cross boundaries.

♎ Lilith in the 7th House Libra

With Lilith in the 7th house, relationships become a central area where you’re misjudged. People might project their sexual desires or desires for control onto your partnerships, reducing them to something physical or superficial rather than emotional. There's an intensity to how people view your relationships—it’s almost like they see them through a lens of desire and don’t always see you for who you truly are.

I’m curious to hear if anyone else with this placement has had similar experiences, but I imagine people might confuse the depth of your relationships for something too sexual or too chaotic. Since the 7th house is all about partnership, whether in romance, business, or even friendships, the idea of Lilith here could make it feel like every relationship becomes a power struggle or is sexually charged.

It can be tough because it feels like your partnerships are seen through projections of sexuality or power dynamics that you didn’t necessarily invite. These projections can make you feel misunderstood in your closest connections.

You might feel compelled to set extremely firm boundaries within your partnerships to avoid these projections. You may even feel the need to prove your worth in relationships beyond what’s expected of you, sometimes overcompensating for others’ misunderstandings.

Let go of others’ sexualized projections in your relationships. Be clear about your emotional needs and how you define intimacy. Surround yourself with people who value your connection beyond the surface level.

♏ Lilith in the 8th House Scorpio

Lilith in the 8th house is all about transformation, power dynamics, and shared resources, especially sexual intimacy. People might find you intensely magnetic and view your sexuality as your most powerful attribute. However, this can also make others see you as a mystery or a source of intrigue. There is a tendency for you to become sexualized, especially when dealing with issues of intimacy, control, or shared power.

The 8th house often deals with taboos, and with Lilith here, it might amplify that in ways where others expect you to use your power over them in intimate relationships or become seen as an object of both desire and obsession. This can also trigger the deep-seated fears in both you and others regarding trust and control in relationships.

You might be underestimated for your emotional depth, with the focus too often put on your sexuality. This can leave you feeling like you are misunderstood at your core, and that people only seek power through intimacy with you.

You may play into this mystique, allowing others to see you as they want to, or you may put up huge walls around your vulnerability, keeping your power closely guarded. Either way, navigating these intense dynamics can create an ongoing challenge to maintain a sense of self.

Work on transforming your personal power in ways that allow you to reclaim your own identity. Practice embracing deep emotional intimacy and power in a way that doesn’t compromise who you truly are at the soul level.

♐ Lilith in the 9th House Sagittarius

Lilith in the 9th house often leads others to sexualize or romanticize your ideas, philosophies, or your travels. Your belief system and personal growth are powerful, but people might be more intrigued by your provocative ideas or the way you expand their boundaries rather than seeing you as an intellectual authority. There’s an undercurrent of attraction, as others tend to focus on your adventurous or boundary-pushing nature.

The 9th house placement gives you a vast sense of expansion, but Lilith here can make your explorations, whether mental or physical, something others overly sexualize. It’s like you’re seen as someone who’s not just about knowledge, but about breaking every boundary—and that becomes sexualized.

You may feel like your desire for intellectual or physical exploration is misunderstood or reduced to something superficial by others. It's frustrating when what you deeply care about is diminished into sexual projections.

You might find it hard to reveal the true depth of your philosophical or adventurous side, feeling boxed into a role others have created for you. You could find yourself over-explaining or pulling back from sharing ideas at all.

Continue to seek intellectual, philosophical, and physical expansion in your life, but focus on doing it in a way that isn't limited by the projections of others. Reclaim your place as an explorer and learner without needing to fit into a mold others make for you.

♑ Lilith in the 10th House Capricorn

With Lilith in the 10th house, your public image, career, and reputation might get sexualized or reduced to how attractive or enticing you are in the public eye. There’s an intense energy that others sense, and some will focus only on the surface level—either deeming you a “sex symbol” or feeling threatened by your power. I have a friend who’s had similar experiences with Lilith here, where her sexuality was too often emphasized—sometimes by her family, others by society—leaving her struggling to find a way to separate herself from this imposed persona. Despite being talented and multifaceted, others often ignore these attributes, reducing her to a sexualized image.

You may feel frustration with the duality between the image people project onto you and who you really are. The constant struggle to have your full professional capabilities seen without your sexuality being the focus can be draining.

To cope, you might overcompensate by embodying this sexualized image more overtly online or offline, or you may go in the opposite direction and try to downplay your looks and focus solely on your work.

Set clear boundaries with your career and public life. Focus on presenting all the facets of yourself and refuse to be confined to only one. Let your true capabilities define you, not the projections others place on your image.

♒ Lilith in the 11th House Aquarius

Lilith in the 11th house means your presence in social groups and communities often comes with a layer of misinterpretation. People might see you as someone who “stirs the pot” in group settings, whether through your attractiveness, rebellious nature, or just by existing outside of the norm. You might be put in a position where your friendships are subtly (or not so subtly) sexualized, either by others assuming romantic or sexual undertones in your platonic relationships or by social circles treating you like an object of intrigue.

From what I’ve observed, this placement can create situations where people feel weirdly possessive over you in group settings. Friends might project their own insecurities onto you, assuming you must be manipulative, seductive, or disruptive just because of how others react to you. There can also be themes of exclusion—perhaps being ostracized or resented for something that isn’t even your fault.

Friendships can feel complicated. Either people try to control you, define you by your sexuality in group dynamics, or make you out to be a “bad influence.” Sometimes it feels like no matter what you do, there’s an energy that people react strongly to, whether positive or negative.

You might distance yourself from social groups to avoid dealing with all of the drama, or you could lean into your rebellious nature and embrace the fact that you shake things up. There can also be a feeling of wanting to prove that you’re more than the assumptions people make about you.

Focus on friendships and community that truly respect you for who you are beyond any projections. Not everyone will misunderstand you, and it’s okay to be selective with who you surround yourself with. Work on reinforcing your boundaries so that you aren’t constantly put in unfair situations.

♓ Lilith in the 12th House Pisces

This is one of the most hidden yet potent Lilith placements. You might not always be overtly sexualized in obvious ways, but there’s a deep, underlying energy that people pick up on. There can be projections placed upon you without you even realizing it, often behind closed doors or in secret conversations. Some may find you irresistibly mysterious or even dangerous without a clear reason why. Your presence lingers in people’s subconscious, sometimes making them uncomfortable.

This placement makes me think of someone who unknowingly impacts others on a psychological level. People might develop secret infatuations or fixate on you in ways that even you don’t fully grasp. It’s like you move through life feeling somewhat unseen, yet somehow, you’re always affecting people on a level beyond your awareness. People may make assumptions about you without real evidence, particularly in environments like hospitals, institutions, or spiritual communities where secrecy or hidden power is involved.

You might struggle with feeling misunderstood in ways that don’t make sense to you. You could go through experiences of being scapegoated, vilified, or treated as if you’re carrying some sort of “forbidden” energy. People may want to project their desires onto you in secret, which can feel invasive or confusing, especially if you don't know where these emotions are coming from.

Some with this placement retreat into isolation, feeling like it’s safer to remain unseen than to deal with others’ projections. Others might unknowingly fall into roles that confirm what people already assume about them, even if it wasn’t their intent. The struggle here is often about untangling other people’s hidden expectations and seeing yourself clearly.

Find ways to ground yourself in your own sense of identity, separate from what others secretly think or expect of you. Therapy, dream journaling, and shadow work can be powerful tools for unraveling hidden fears or subconscious influences in your life. Recognizing when you’re being scapegoated or unfairly projected upon is crucial, and learning to set firm energetic boundaries will protect your peace.

Do any of these descriptions resonate with you? I’d love to hear about your experiences, especially if you have Lilith in the 5th or 7th house—those are placements I don’t personally have much insight into, so feel free to share your thoughts!

[carnalcrows]

Yandere Perfect Student head-cannons

cw: yandere traits, mentioned sex, reader is a loser and a FREAK!!

disclaimer: I want to emphasize that I do not endorse or support this type of behaviour. This content is purely for entertainment purposes.

New oc based off this post

yandere ! perfect student, who’s always been at the top of everything—grades, charm, reputation, sex appeal (though he never cashes in on it).

yan ! perfect student, who prides himself on being untouchable. Who treats crushes like minor inconveniences. Who ghosted the student body president and his own debate partner and got away with it.

yan ! perfect student, who’s never once noticed you—until you laughed during a lecture. Alone. No one else was talking.

yan ! perfect student, whose eyes flick to the back of the room and find you, smiling faintly at your own desk like you're in on some secret joke.

yan ! perfect student, who thinks What the fuck? And means it in the worst way.

yan ! perfect student, who hears the rumours. That you're weird. Unsettling. That you doodle eldritch things in your planner and mutter in Latin during group projects. That you once got caught sniffing a book in the library. That you're probably failing three classes and yet always there, haunting the corners of lecture halls like a stray thought.

yan ! perfect student, who smiles when you finally bump into each other outside the cafeteria. You’re looking at a vending machine like it insulted your ancestors. He says your name, slow and deliberate. You look up, eyes bleary, and go, “Oh. Are you the guy with the stupidly linear eyebrows?”  He chokes on air. For the first time in his life.

yan ! perfect student, who laughs it off. Who plays the long game. Who starts sitting beside you in class, offering gum, correcting your notes, and making casual conversation. He expects resistance. You, meanwhile, hand him a heart-shaped paperclip and go, “It looked like your vibe.”

yan ! perfect student, who thinks, what the fuck is wrong with this guy.

 yan ! perfect student, who thinks, Why do I want to press him against a wall and see how fast he breaks?

yan ! perfect student, who learns that you barely eat lunch unless someone reminds you. That you’re always cold, even in summer. That you keep giving him small, weird gifts—stickers, cursed keychains, a CD labelled “sex dungeon ambience for wizards.”

yan ! perfect student, who starts wondering where you are when he can’t see you. Who starts glaring at people who laugh too hard at your expense. He doesn't mean to get possessive. You’re just… his. Obviously. Even if you don’t know it yet.

yan ! perfect student, who finally sees the shift in you—when you catch him staring.  When your lips curve just so. When you lean in and whisper, “You always look like you’re trying not to eat me alive. You’d be a terrible liar in bed, huh?”

yan ! perfect student, who swears under his breath. He goes home that night and can’t sleep.  Not with the image of your fingers tugging at your hoodie strings while you ask him if he’s “ever tried breathplay with someone who talks in their sleep.”

yan ! perfect student, who should have run the other way.  But you smile like a predator dressed as prey. And now he's the one following you.

yan ! perfect student, who corners you after class, fists clenched in his pockets, and says, “You think you're funny, don't you?” And you? You tilt your head, grin all teeth, and murmur, “I think you want me to shut up. With your mouth.”

yan ! perfect student, who doesn’t know if he wants to ruin you or be ruined.

yan ! perfect student, who realises—far too late—that whatever game he started, he’s not the one in control anymore.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time and I take genuine effort to do them.

Taglist: @zolass @edensrose @tamias-wrld @ilovesugurugeto69 @planetxella @mazettns @longlivegojo @midnight-138 @literallyrousseau @vimademedoitt @useless-n-clueless @flatl1n3 @hikaurbae @lexkou @razefxylorf @abrielletargaryen @coco-145 @eagleeyedbitch @deathofacupid @gayaristocrat @porcalinecunt @whatsaheartxx @thecringes2000 @sageofspades @g4vcat @itsrandompersonyall @blvdprn @blueemochii @sappychat @onyxxxxqq @axetivev @s1llygo0s3 @crazydirectioner2000-blog @thestarsallowed @honey-valentin3 @academiq @gaozorous-rex-blog @idkmissgurl @sa1ki-deactivated20250510@sooniebby @seomn

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Plus one 3/9

Summary : When Lando Norris realizes he's the only F1 driver attending the Monaco F1 movie premiere without a girlfriend, he panics and convinces Oscar to help him find a last-minute plus one.

Author note : I get this story idea after the private projection of the F1 movie with all the drivers in Monaco (also can we imagine they weren't wearing their team kit and actually did dress up).

Genre : pure fluff

Series masterlist

Main masterlist

The theater was grand in a way only Monaco could manage: gold filigree ceilings, velvet seats, and chandeliers dimmed to a flattering warm glow. Lando followed Y/N down their row like a shadow, his palms slightly clammy, trying not to obsess over whether she’d sit next to him or next to Lily.

She chose the seat beside him, dropping into it easily with a quiet sigh of contentment.

Okay. Good start.

He sat too, far too stiffly and tried to mirror her casual posture, which only made him look like he was attempting yoga in a suit.

Y/N leaned slightly toward him, her voice low and cheerful. “This place is amazing. I’ve never been to a screening like this.”

He smiled, then panicked, then said the worst possible thing: “Yeah, same. Well, not same same. I’ve been to screenings. Loads. Just… not with a girl before. Not like this.”

She blinked. “Oh?”

The second of hesitation before her response made his stomach curl. That hadn’t sounded like flirting. That had sounded like a confession from someone painfully overthinking every word.

Y/N tilted her head, smiling. “Well, thanks for inviting me.”

Lando laughed too loudly. “Well it’s—it’s nice to have someone here. With me.”

She nodded, then glanced past him. “Oh! Lily’s over there with Carmen. Be right back.”

And just like that, she was gone. Floating off like a leaf in the breeze, over to Lily and Carmen, already mid-laugh before she’d even reached them.

Lando sat there, jaw slightly slack.

Okay. Okay, that’s fine. That’s normal. People talk to friends.

He tried not to look like he was watching her too closely.

Oscar slid into the empty seat next to him with a smug grin. “How’s it going, Romeo?”

“Shut up.”

Oscar leaned in. “She ditched you already?”

“She didn’t ditch me. She’s just—talking to Lily.”

Oscar made a thoughtful sound. “Right. You manage to tell her that this was a date, though, yeah?”

Lando stared at the movie screen ahead. “...Not in so many words, I was trying to be subtle."

“Subtle’s not working. You look like you're about to pass out.”

Lando glared. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Nope.” Oscar sipped his drink, then nodded toward Y/N, who was now animatedly telling Carmen something that made both of them laugh. “She’s having a great time, though.”

“Yeah, with everyone but me.”

“She just doesn’t know you’re emotionally imploding. You’re not exactly Mr. Expressive.”

Lando slumped in his seat, watching Y/N rejoin Lily and the others, slipping easily between groups like she’d been born into this world.

When she returned a few minutes later and sat back beside him, she smiled brightly.

“Sorry! I saw someone I knew from uni too. Small world.”

“Totally,” he muttered.

She looked at him, then hesitated. “Are you okay? You seem… quiet.”

“I’m fine,” he lied, and added too quickly, “I just—you know, it’s funny how you bring someone to something like this, and realising it could be… a thing.”

She looked puzzled. “A thing?”

“Like. A thing thing.” He added, trying to make her undrestand the message.

Her eyes widened slightly, then she laughed. “Oh! No, don’t worry. I’ve been telling people I’m just your fill-in so no one makes weird assumptions.”

He froze. “My… fill-in?”

“Yeah, you know. Like, a temporary plus one. Because your actual date bailed or something.”

“I… didn’t have another date.”

“Oh.”

A pause.

“Right,” she said with a small laugh. “Well—still, happy to help.”

Lando nodded slowly. “Yeah. Great.” It was a pure failure.

She turned back to the screen, blissfully unaware.

And Lando sank a little lower into his seat.

He didn’t even know what to say anymore. He’d invited a girl to a red carpet event, held open a car door for her, worn a tux like a proper gentleman… and she still thought she was just doing a favor for Lily.

Perfect.

The theater was silent as the screen flickered to life, and a slow hush fell over the crowd.

A dramatic orchestral swell opened the film, followed by sweeping shots of race tracks and pit lanes. The audience leaned forward in their seats, ready to be immersed.

Except Lando.

Lando leaned sideways.

Not obviously. Not enough for anyone to notice. But enough to watch her without looking like he was watching her.

Y/N sat beside him, hands folded lightly in her lap, eyes wide with curiosity. She looked like she genuinely wanted to be here, not for the glitz, not for the spectacle, but because she was interested.

Her brow lifted slightly at the first scene: a pit lane disaster involving a fictional team. She leaned forward when a mechanic shouted something garbled over a headset.

And then came the first action scene. Loud, fast, chaotic.

She flinched.

Not dramatically. Not in a way that would make anyone else think twice. But Lando saw it. Her shoulders twitched. Her lips parted in surprise. Then she grinned, just a little, and whispered something to herself that he couldn’t hear.

He had no idea what was happening on screen. And he didn’t care.

Because this—her—was a hundred times more interesting than any movie.

Every time the screen cut to a racetrack or showed a sleek car skimming along the asphalt, she leaned in slightly, her mouth parting like she was trying to absorb it all at once.

Then his own face appeared on screen, a brief glimpse of real footage mixed with the film’s narrative.He didn’t even remember filming that weekend.

Y/N immediately turned to him, beaming. She nudged his elbow lightly and whispered, “Look—it’s you!”

Her smile was warm and wide, like she was genuinely delighted to see him, not just impressed. It wasn't awe. It was something quieter, more personal.

He smiled back, heart tripping over itself.

“I know,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

She turned her attention back to the screen, still grinning.

Lando barely blinked for the next twenty minutes, not because the movie was riveting, but because she was. The way she tilted her head. The way she laughed quietly at one of the fake commentator’s quips. The way she mouthed "oh no" when a crash scene unfolded in slow motion. It was simply adorable.

He wanted to ask what she thought. He wanted to hear her break it down. He wanted to ask if she really liked it or was just being polite. He wanted to say her reactions was the cutest thing he ever witness.

Then, somewhere around the halfway point, the film quieted.

A sad scene, a hospital room, a driver injured, a teammate crying.

Y/N didn’t say anything. She just stilled.

Then, without looking at him, without asking, she reached out and gently gripped his arm.

Her fingers closed just above his elbow, soft but firm. Like she needed to hold onto something.

Lando froze.

She didn’t even notice. She kept watching, lost in the story, lips pressed together now, her gaze shining faintly in the glow of the screen.

But Lando didn’t even know what was happening in the film anymore. His brain had short-circuited.

All he could feel was the warmth of her hand against his jacket. Her thumb resting lightly near the inside of his elbow. His heart, hammering so loudly he was sure someone in the row ahead could hear it.

He swallowed.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t dare breathe too loudly.

By the time the scene faded into another racing montage, she let go, almost absentmindedly, not even aware she’d been holding on.

But Lando still hadn’t recovered.

The movie carried on, drama, rivalry, betrayal, all the classic beats. But Lando still hadn’t settled. Not really. Not since she touched him.

He tried to focus. Tried to reorient his brain back to the plot.

And that’s exactly when it happened.

The screen cut to a new scene: private quarters, dim lighting, soft music humming beneath the dialogue. A whispered exchange between the film’s lead and his love interest.

Lando didn’t think much of it, until the first moan hit.

Loud. Very loud.

He tensed immediately.

Oh no. No, no, no.

Beside him, Y/N shifted.

The moaning continued, paired with very clear visuals. Hands. Skin. Mouths. Legs.

And sounds. Why were the sounds so detailed?

Lando stared straight ahead, jaw locked. His hands gripped the armrest like he was preparing for a crash landing.

He could feel the heat crawl up his neck, into his face, and behind his ears. He could feel the blood rushing into his ears.

Do. Not. Look. At. Her.

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

But he did. Just a glance.

She had her hand up near her mouth, two fingers resting lightly against her lips. Not covering them. Just… there. Her eyes were still on the screen, but her brows had knit together, and her posture had stiffened just enough to confirm: she felt awkward, too.

And when she caught him looking, just barely, from the corner of her eye, she gave him the tiniest smile. A helpless, half-embarrassed, “what the hell is this” kind of smile.

He huffed out a breath.

It wasn’t a laugh. Not exactly. But it wasn’t panic either.

The scene dragged on another twenty seconds too long, and Lando genuinely considered walking out and pretending to get a drink. He’d rather fake a sprained ankle than sit through another hyperrealistic kiss-cut-to-bed-movement audio loop right next to the girl he was desperatly into.

But then, blessedly, it ended.

The music faded. The next scene opened on a sunrise.

Lando exhaled slowly and dared to glance at her again. This time, she looked at him, really looked at him, her cheeks faintly pink.

She whispered, “That was... intense.”

He whispered back, “I think I forgot how to breathe.”

She chuckled softly under her breath, clearly still embarrassed, but not running away from it.

And in that weird, horrible, mortifying moment, something shifted. Because instead of the perfect, poised girl who seemed too calm, too composed, too above it all, there she was.

Awkward.

Human.

Blushing.

Just like him.

And somehow, Lando found himself smiling back.

Permanent taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1, @adynorris, @curlylando, @rebelliousneferut, @justcharlotte, @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies, @emneedshelp, @lando-505, @yukimaniac, @sashisuslover, @f1norris04, @hi26loveie, @bunnisplayground, @nina481, @reallifemermaidprincess, @cars-and-frogs, @delululeclerc, @txmhxllqnd, @lydia-demarek, @destinyg237, @rhaenyrasversion, @sarascabiosa, @readz4u, @tvdtw4ever, @mynameisangeloflife, @teti-menchon0604, @suns3treading, @op814kitty, @prettyboyroseberg, @willowsnook, @ariesandwolves, @clarksgf, @knivesdoingcartwheels

Let me know if you want to be add or removed from the taglist :)

[plethorawrites]

can I request Damian x reader but reader is like the opposite she’s clumsy and messy (NOT DIRTY SHES JUST NOT REALLY ORGANIZED) and at first Damian is like no way I could ever like someone like that but then he’s like oh shit I think I like her you don’t have to do it but it was just an idea

(A/N- This has been sitting in my drafts for a bit because people are STILL calling me racist, so I've seriously considered wiping Damian from my page completely. But I love him as a character way too much to do that, so here we are!) (Requests are open again, btw!)

---

Despite being rather pretentious because of his upbringing, I think anytime Damian Wayne is assigned to do a group project, he'd want to go to someone else's house. They usually live in squalor (Middle class) but he deals with it for a few hours because it beats having his classmates fawning over his older brother's or asking his dad if he really used to date Harvey Dent or if that's just a rumor.

Usually, despite the condition of the house (Aka having a dish rack on the counter.) the room they'd work in was pretty clean. But you? Oh, no, no, no. He almost had a heart attack when he saw the state of catastrophe your study room was in.

Books on the ground instead of on the shelves, chair pulled out from the desk instead of tucked in, tons of sticky notes scattered on the walls and reminders pinned up. No one could have that short of a memory, could they? You seemed to.

The number of loose papers on the desk, the open notebooks with illegible writing, fidget toys to relieve stress or increase your focus, cups from when you needed coffee for a late-night study session that hadn't made it all the way to the dishwasher yet. (But it was on the sticky note! Right under the reminder to check your email.

Was that a thing people needed to remember to do?

He was utterly perplexed by the chaos you seemed so comfortable in. What he found most odd though, was how you never made any effort to fix it. He had been to your house three times thus far, trying to make a dent in the project that would take at least another week and each time, your room was the same. He even offered to help you organize (For his own sanity) but you turned him down, claiming you liked it how it was.

"How could anyone possibly like studying like this?" he questioned.

You shrugged. "I find having a pristine desk makes me uncomfortable, like I'm not actually doing work in a space I can relax in," you explained. "Plus, research shows environments like this increase brain productivity."

Damian wasn't sure if he believed that for a single second. But you clearly seemed to.

"But it's so messy," he muttered, motioning to your desk, so covered in God knows what that he couldn't even see what color the wood was.

"It's disorganized, not messy," you retorted. "And I know where everything is. Pencil sharper is by the white out because I use both rarely, erasers are where all the pencils are because I stab the led into them when I'm bored, highlighters are the ruler, which is.... under the syllabus I printed at the start of the year."

You pointed at everything as you said it and he slowly came to the realization that you weren't lying when you said you weren't messy. You kind of, in some weird way, had a system that worked.

Still, it felt uncomfortable for him. For a while. He'd watch you chew on your pencil and reach for tape that came from he didn't even know where, seemingly materializing things out of thin air. You barely even sat in the chair, he realized. He was always the one sitting in it, watching you sit or lay on the floor.

The only time Damian was ever on the floor was when Titus knocked him down or he got beat by his brothers during sparring. (Not that it ever happened..psh, no, don't be absurd.)

He slowly got a bit more accustomed to your room, even starting to find a bit of comfort whenever he stepped into it. It was welcoming, in a way, he'd come to think. When had that happened?

"Aren't you supposed to leave by eight?" you asked him, stretching your arms over your head as you sat on the floor across from him.

Damian frowned, looking at the time. He realized it was already 7:55. Had it already been four hours? It seemed like he just sat down on your rug, which, was surprisingly comfortable.

He hated to admit how much more productive he felt sitting on the floor than at a desk. "Uh, yes, right," he nodded, standing up and stretching as well. "I think we can probably get this finished by Tuesday," he added, feeling a weird pang of disappointment by the thought.

You nodded. "Alright, I'll see you tomorrow at four, then," you told him, watching as he packed up his books neatly, the pages fitting back in the nice folder perfectly. "Unless you wanna stay," you suddenly found yourself offering. "For dinner, I mean. If...if you want to. No pressure."

Damian paused, caught off guard by invitation. He stared at you for a few minutes, lips parting but words not leaving his mouth. Dinner? That was probably going to last at least an hour or two. Longer if your parents were the kind to serve dessert or chat a lot. He might not get home until ten or later.

"Sure," he agreed abruptly, though logically he knew he should refuse. He was supposed to be asleep by nine so he could get some rest before patrol. "I'd love to stay for dinner," he remarked, setting his bag back down for what wasn't one or two hours like planned, but four and a half.

How he would explain getting home past midnight to his father, he wasn't sure yet. But he'd find a reasonable excuse. After all, his dad was the one who told him to find normal friends and he was just doing what he asked.

...You were just his friend, right?

[ayukas]

゛7dream as your group-project mates (but they’re all secretly in love with you) ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

7dream who begged your professor to bend the rules. who whined in unison at nine in the morning, a chorus of misbehaving puppies gathered outside her office, hands clasped, eyes wide with practiced desperation, voices syrupy-sweet and way too charming to be sincere.

“technically, we’re seven,” chenle says with a hopeful smile, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“but spiritually, we’re eight,” haechan adds, expression dead serious.

jaemin leans against the doorframe, spinning a pen between his fingers, a practiced charm in the tilt of his grin “c’mon, prof. it’s just one more person. just her.”

because what are seven boys to do without the sun they orbit around? what is a group-project without the girl who makes even silent brainstorming sessions feel like a slow-burn romance film?

the professor sighs, defeated. then, she agrees. seven pairs of eyes light up like kids on christmas morning.

you walk in minutes later, and they all greet you at once—too brightly, too eagerly—like it was fate, and not manipulation, that brought you to them.

haechan who never actually needed help with the slides but still texted,

urgent URGENT need ur help with the slides jisung’s USELESS PLS COME PLS COME PLS COME

you arrive at the campus cafe, laptop in tow, and spot him immediately by the window—sunlight spilling over his skin like honey. you watch as he plays with the straw of his drink, black thick-rimmed glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he huffs, a mess of black curls ruffled from waiting.

he nearly falls out of his chair when he sees you, jumping up and waving both hands like a man overboard spotting land.

“i got you your favourite,” he beams, cheeks dusted pink from excitement. “i remembered.”

and when you ask where the others are, he dodges the question entirely, tripping over his words, trying to change the topic and distracting you by pointing out every flaw in your powerpoint font choices.

eventually, you let it go, and he settles comfortably again, his hand finding yours—brushing, brushing, then finally staying, fingers laced in silent confession. he tugs on a strand of your hair absentmindedly, plays with the edge of your sweater sleeve like he’s memorising the texture.

your voice falters mid-sentence when he reaches up tenderly, tucking your hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing your cheek. from the corner of your eye, you catch his boba eyes staring at you—soft, stunned, like you’re the most beautiful slide he’s ever seen.

mark & jaemin who “forgot” how to work the prototype.

can you come over to ours? prototype’s being weird. we’re stuck :/

you knock on their dorm door, expecting chaos and wires and last-minute stress. instead, you’re greeted by dimmed lights, the soft glow of their projector, and a pillow fort on the couch like something out of a sleepover movie.

the prototype’s nowhere in sight and jaemin throws a blanket over your lap before you can even start to question them. mark hands you a slice of pizza with a sheepish grin, like everything is normal, like they didn’t just lure you here under false pretenses.

“we figured it out already,” mark says, chuckling into his drink.

“but now we need help figuring out which movie to watch,” jaemin adds, head tilted as he scrolls through endless options, pretending to be focused.

you end up squished between them on the couch, warm and drowsy under the blanket. both boys leaning closer and closer everytime they laugh, their shoulders pressing against yours like clockwork.

mark sneaks glances when you’re not looking—eyes soft, almost shy. jaemin doesn’t even bother hiding it, his gaze never once leaving your face, like the movie is just background noise to the real feature.

jeno who volunteers to edit the report with you late at night, even though he has a baseball game the next morning.

he shows up at your dorm with his laptop, some study materials, and a bag of all your favourite snacks. he opens his laptop but barely uses it, too distracted by the way you chew at your pen cap when you’re thinking. the way your brows furrow when you're focused. the way you hum softly to your music as you work.

and when your mug runs empty, he refills it without you having to ask, the rim still warm from his own touch when he hands it back to you.

“how much did you get done?” you ask, stretching.

he blinks. “...one... word...?”

you burst into laughter, head thrown back, and he grins like he’s just hit a walk-off home run.

renjun who pretends to be annoyed when you make a mistake.

he sighs, dramatic and put-upon. “you’re doing it wrong,” he says, leaning over, hand over yours, voice low and slow as he guides you through the steps, his fingers lingering far longer than necessary.

he rolls his eyes when you mispronounce a theory term, but then repeats it in a tone so soft it practically melts into your skin.

he walks you home when meetings run late, pushing the rest of your friends away and pulls you away with him, muttering something about how he doesn’t trust the others with a pretty girl like you.

you thank him and he grumbles like he’s annoyed, but his scarf is already half-wrapped around your neck, and his hand is already reaching for yours.

“safety measure,” he mumbles, ears bright red as he avoids your eyes.

chenle & jisung who studies with you in the library even when they don’t want to.

chenle who groans the entire time about how unfairly high the project’s weightage is, but still shows up early with snacks he knows you like—because “someone has to make sure you’re fed.”

“you better not skip lunch again,” he warns, poking your arm with a prawn chip. his tone is teasing, but there’s concern in the crease of his brows.

jisung who doesn’t say much, but always choosing to sit beside you instead of his best friend. he opens his book to the same page you’re on and mirrors your reading pace, like working next to you helps the words make more sense.

he offers you one side of his earbuds, hand trembling slightly when your fingers brush. and when you call him cute after catching him startled at the contact, he turns red from collar to ears—denying it immediately, but unable to stop smiling for the next hour.

7dream who, when the project is submitted, are somehow outside your professor’s office again.

not for an extension, not for a grade bump, but to beg, again—politely, desperately—to stay together as a group for the next group-project too.

“we just work really well together,” mark says, a little too quickly.

“yeah,” jeno chimes in, nodding. “great chemistry.”

you glance at them, half-suspicious with the way they’re all grinning so much.

when you leave for your next class, jisung whispers, “i think i’m gonna confess to her after finals.”

“what? no way!” renjun hisses, “i was gonna ask her out!”

“over my dead body,” jaemin hums, already daydreaming about his confession strategy. should he buy you chocolates or flowers? both?

because 7dream may be your classmates, your groupmates, your friends—but they’ve also each written essays stitched onto their hearts. long, rambling, hopelessly romantic essays, each sentence spelling,

i like you, and i hope you never notice how obvious it is.

notes i know i said i was on a mini hiatus but my final-year project is Stressing me out Bad and im in a Rough patch with my groupmates (MY LEADER... BOO...) so i decided to write this to comfort myself #selfindulgent #idgaf #saveayukas did u guys miss me... i missed being on here hahahsh 😿✌️

perm. taglist ♡ @dreaminabtrj @ddolbyong @f6llsun @egojo1st @sungbites @nonverdolly @strwberie @blondemrk @chenlezip @markkiatocafe @stqrgr7 @jisungji @taroddori @haeriaes @kukkurookkoo @polarisjisung @dudekiss3r @dejundesign @uncasings @sweetpinkblueberry @spacejip @yushiela @insbread @t-102 @haelvrty @pl4netx1a @haeivie @natakgae @fae-renjun @sunghoonsgfreal @jaemcaffe @xikskrrrs

[neferaskingdom]

♡ Downward Spiral | LN4

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: It's been weeks since the breakup, and they're both on a downward spiral. It's getting so bad that now their friends have to intervene. Guess it's time for project "Save Dumb and Dumber"

A/N: This is part of my Playlist Roulette series, where I shuffle my playlists and write a story inspired by the first song that pops up. This is Part 2 of the story inspired by the song Too Precious by Em Beihold.

Previous | Series Masterlist | Next

It was weird, the things you miss. Like the sound of his laugh echoing off the kitchen tiles. The way he’d talk to himself when he thought no one was listening. Or how his hand would always find hers without even looking.

She didn’t talk about him. Not to anyone. But some days, he was all she thought about.

And it wasn’t like she missed everything. The loud nights, the arguments that started small and spiraled into something ugly. But there were moments. The soft ones. Mornings in bed when everything felt still. His thumb brushing her cheek. His voice, quiet and raspy.

Some days she did fine. Went to work. Came home. Read books. Answered texts. It was almost like she was normal.

But some nights, the weight of missing him made her feel like her ribs were collapsing inward. She’d cry quietly in the shower, wiping her face before facing anyone. She avoided their usual haunts, blocked half his friend group on Instagram, and stopped listening to music altogether.

It all reminded her of him.

Meanwhile, Lando was coming undone in louder ways.

He went out every night. Ibiza, Monaco, wherever the afterparty was. Girls draped over his arm, drinks in both hands. He laughed too hard. Said yes to everything. He burned through days and nights without blinking, too high or too drunk to care if he was crashing.

He didn’t really notice how fast it got out of control until he woke up in someone else’s bed and couldn’t remember her name.

The parties helped. So did the girls, for a while. But nothing stuck. Nothing felt like her.

Max pulled the joint out of his hand. "Mate. You look like shit."

"Thanks," Lando muttered.

"I mean it. This isn’t you."

Lando snorted. "Don’t act like you know me."

Max didn’t rise to it. "No one knows you anymore. Not since she left."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Lando stood and grabbed another drink. He didn’t answer.

The sadness came in waves. Some days she was fine. Other days, she’d see something small — a hoodie he left behind, a stupid meme he would’ve sent her — and it knocked the breath out of her.

He was still everywhere and it was getting harder to pretend she was okay.

"You’ve gotta snap out of it," Layla said, sitting on the edge of her bed. "You can’t keep rotting in here."

"I’m not rotting."

"You’re literally lying in the same hoodie you’ve worn for four days. You barely eat. You barely talk. You’re spiraling, babe."

She didn’t answer. Because it was true.

She stopped going to brunch with her friends, stopped answering FaceTime calls. Every little reminder of him chipped away at her—his mug in her cupboard, the perfume he said he liked on her, a half-used bottle of hair gel in her bathroom drawer.

She was unraveling. Some days she didn’t brush her hair until noon. Her appetite vanished. Her eyes looked duller. Even her laugh had a hollow edge.

He was getting mean.

Short with his engineers. Cold with his friends. His trainer, Will, had stopped trying to get him up for workouts after Lando told him to "piss off" for the third time in a row.

It was like something in him had cracked — and everything that came out now was bitter and sharp and empty.

She’d stopped pretending she was okay.

The tears came easier now — over empty coffee mugs, over old songs on the radio, over the sweater that still smelled like him even after three washes.

Her best friend, Layla, didn’t push her to go out anymore. Didn’t force pep talks against her will and just showed up with food and tissues and sat beside her while she broke down.

"He didn’t even fight for us," she whispered one night, eyes red, throat raw. "He just let it happen."

Layla ran a hand down her back. "You both did. That’s why it’s so sad."

She nodded, curling tighter on the couch.

Some days were worse than others. On the worst ones, she barely left her room. She’d reread old texts and convince herself that maybe it was all an act. That never cared at all.

Max shoved the door open. The flat reeked of stale weed and whatever had spilled on the carpet.

Lando was passed out on the couch. Again.

"This is getting out of hand," Max muttered.

Pietra crossed her arms. "No. It’s already out of hand."

Lando stirred and blinked up at them, groggy. "You guys have the keys to my place now?"

"We’ve always had the keys," Pietra snapped. "Because we don’t trust you not to OD in here."

Lando laughed. It was dry and lifeless. "I’m not that bad."

"Trust me, mate you don't even know what you are anymore," Max said.

"I’m not going," she said, arms crossed.

Layla didn’t blink. "It’s my birthday."

"So?"

"So you owe me. Remember who held your hair while you sobbed over The Notebook and tequila?"

"That was one time."

"You broke my Dyson. That vacuum cost money, bitch."

She blinked. "You’re emotionally blackmailing me."

"Damn right I am”

“I thought you were going for high tea for your birthday? Why did you suddenly change it to Jimmy’s? I thought you hated that place!”

“Hate is a strong word. Also, it’s my birthday and I want to party for once. You better be there or else I’m telling your mom about the broken vase.”

“For fucks sake no need to blackmail me!” She said exasperated, “I’ll go”

Taglist: @sltwins @verogonewild @anunstablefangirl

[nuwanders]

While I respect what you're trying to do and I agree with the general idea and sentiment behind there's just the problem that boycotts don't work in our contemporary world unfortunately, especially on big companies like microsoft, I remember when this happened with hogwarts legacy and it didn't change anything, in the end that just became a sort of weird purity test, I din't buy that game cause I had no interest and even if I did I hate jkr, but I don't see any use in shaming people who do.

I don't think you're doing purity testing or anything similar, and the effort is admirable, but I think believing that people that buy the game don't care about palestine is wrong, I think it's more that they don't see the use in trying a boycott that will fail.

Btw I hope the boycott succeds I sincerely don't think it will, I myself am not buying the game for a while and will probably pirate it, but it's my personal choice and I don't see the use in shaming people for playing it as it won't win them over and will most likely make them bitter towards the cause, people are fickle and selfish by nature, and the same thing happened with hogwarts legacy. People said it revealed those who played ad unworthy allies, but I don't think we should exclude people by worthiness, you don't win by having "quality" you win by having "quantity".

That's just my two cents on the subject though

consumer boycotts can and do work. a few highlights taken from here (emphasis my own):

Affirming the role the BDS movement has played in the Israeli economy’s “spiral of collapse,” as 130 leading Israeli economists describe it, in September, the Chairman of the Israeli Export Institute said: “BDS and boycotts have changed Israel’s global trade landscape.” He added, “Economic boycotts and BDS organizations present major challenges, and in some countries, we are forced to operate under the radar.” Israel’s projected annual GDP growth rate for 2024 is 0%, according to leading credit rating agency S&P, and some 60,000 Israeli businesses are projected to have shut down during this year of ongoing genocide. Global sales of McDonald’s, a prime BDS target, “fell by 1.5% between July and September, the biggest decline in four years, more than twice the size forecast by analysts. It followed a 1% drop in the April to June period.” In October, fossil fuel giant Chevron, a priority target of the BDS movement, halted a $429 million expansion of an Israeli-claimed fossil gas field amid Israel’s ongoing genocide in Gaza and its brutal bombings in Lebanon, Syria, and beyond. In August, in a significant BDS win, French insurer AXA was forced to sell its investments in all major Israeli banks. In November, Carrefour closed all branches in Jordan due to BDS pressure. Carrefour’s partner in most of the Arab World, the Majid Al Futtaim Group, reacted to BDS Jordan’s boycott pressure by ending all business with the French retailer in Jordan. In November, the Boycott PUMA campaign confirmed that, following relentless BDS campaigns worldwide, the German company had ended its complicity with Israel’s apartheid regime. In December, the Strauss Group, a complicit Israeli multinational food and beverage corporation, was forced, due to an effective BDS campaign, to sell off its shares in the US-based company, Sabra, which mass produces the culturally-appropriated popular Arab dip, hummus."

looking further back, boycotts, divestments and sanctions played a crucial role in dismantling the apartheid state in south africa. from here:

Boycotts may have been a form of activism that was easier to implement on a variety of different scales, but it provided a very extensive impact on apartheid in South Africa. The very threat of boycotts of South Africa in the 1984 Olympics pushed the leader of the IOC to go against the Olympic Charter and keep South Africa out of the Olympics – making the decision as early as 1981. This showed the power the boycotts had built up, and the authority they carried. The boycotts were seen as being so effective that even the IOC would not be able to withstand their financial and diplomatic fall-out. South Africa would finally rejoin the Olympic community in Barcelona in 1992, “following the commencement of governmental talks to finally bring an end to apartheid.”

that targeted boycotts can be extremely effective is not up for debate. but i think the crucial thing to acknowledge here is that they are one of the most easy and accessible forms of protest because they do not require you to actually do anything.

your argument would hold water if i was demanding that everyone go out and start blowing up embassies or setting themselves on fire. but BDS is literally just asking people to do nothing at all.

this isn't a moral purity thing, it's a statement of fact that boycotts only work if people participate. and they fail because of the exceptionalist arguments you're spouting here: "it's my personal choice." ok, sure. it's my personal choice to not get vaccinated. it's my personal choice to vote conservative.

the other thing is that microsoft is one of the more egregious targets on the BDS list, for reasons better outlined here. i know that this isn't the fault of the folks working at bethesda, who will be several degrees removed from the heinous shit happening at the top. but BDS has specifically listed Microsoft's gaming division as a key component of the boycott, for the very fact that video games are perhaps the easiest product for the average consumer to opt out of.

tldr;

boycotts are effective

they are easy

they only work if people participate

BDS has specifically named bethesda

people should therefore boycott bethesda

i don't think i'm being unreasonable in expressing disappointment at the large swathes of TES fans who see themselves as above it

[covenofagatha]

Do I wanna know? (Part 6)

Agatha surprises you with a visit

Word count: 4.7k

Warnings: fingering, strap, sex, mommy kink, fluff, it's almost all smut

You’ve just gotten back to your dorm room Friday afternoon after all your classes when your phone buzzes in your pocket. 

It’s been a rough day with a pop quiz in Chemistry that you definitely failed and your group chat for the World History project has been blowing up, mostly with excuses as to why your other members haven’t been able to do their share of the work, so you can only imagine what it is now. 

And to make matters worse, you had gone to your dad’s last night for dinner and when you had gone to the bathroom, you had found a box of condoms under his sink when you were looking for more toilet paper. It hit you like a train but you had fixed your face in the mirror and not said a word to him or to your mom when she inevitably called you after it to ask how it went. You didn’t want to talk to Agatha about it either, just because she had been married to him and it felt weird to complain or vent about that. 

The only thing you want to do is collapse into Agatha’s comforting embrace and have her hold you. You are so fucking exhausted. 

When you pull your phone out, you breathe a heavy sigh of relief when you see that it is Agatha. Your stomach warms. You’ve watched the video she sent you on Tuesday more times than you can count—you’ve touched yourself to it more times than you could count as well. After you got back to your dorm after dinner with Carol, she had sent you the second half of the video, in which she filmed herself coming while moaning your name. 

You can still hear her breathy gasps and it’s been very distracting the past few days. 

Hey, hon! Hope your day has been good. Would you be able to go to your car and send me a picture of your license plate so I can get it registered for when you come to stay with me? 

You flop onto your bed and close your eyes for a few moments before whining quietly. She hasn’t texted you since this morning and now all she wants is for you to go back downstairs and take a picture of your car? Your mind is screaming at you to just do it tomorrow but you reluctantly sit up with a groan and trudge outside. At least now she’s talking to you.  

The sunlight blinds you and you squint, rounding the corner of the building, and trying to remember where you parked. It’s been a few days since you drove and now you accidentally walk down the wrong row about three times. 

Until you finally spot the front of it and you grumble as you walk around it and freeze—Agatha is standing right there in a casual gray blouse and black pants. Her hair is loose and catches the sunlight, making it appear a lighter shade than it is. Her blue eyes are full of joy. 

“What…what are you doing here?” you ask, completely dumbfounded, but your heart swells and you laugh, taking a step closer to her and reaching out your hand to touch her just to make sure you’re not hallucinating. 

She’s really there. 

“Surprise?” she says sheepishly, holding out her arms and you laugh, completely giddy, as you jump into them. The force almost knocks you both down but she catches you with an oomph. You breathe in her scent and feel her hair tickle your cheeks and her fingers gently stroke your back and you can’t believe that she’s actually here. 

Why is she here? 

You pull back and scan her face. “I thought you had meetings this weekend.” 

Agatha smiles and cups your cheek lovingly. “I did but then they got cancelled for tomorrow—something about the client having food poisoning? I was able to get out of work early today and thought I would come see you. And,” she leans in, a wicked grin on her face, “I got a hotel room.”

She slides her hands to your lower back so she can hold you tighter against her and with a sharp inhale, you feel a hardness in her pants. Your brain suddenly goes foggy and your knees almost buckle. 

“Fuck,” you breathe and she nods. You feel an ache start to grow in your cunt. “Can we go now?” 

Agatha chuckles and takes you by the hand to lead you to her car. You don’t have anything besides your phone and your keys, but the only thing on your mind is her. 

You know you should ask about her job and New York and how she’s been doing, but it’s hard to concentrate over the thrumming of arousal in your veins and you squirm restlessly as you watch her fingers curl around the steering wheel. It’s only been a week and it’s not that you haven’t had an orgasm at all—it’s just so much different, and better, now that she’s here. 

Agatha clearly feels the same urgency with quick glances to catch your eye and twitches of her hands like she’s trying to resist touching you. You have no doubt that she would already have her hand down your pants if it weren’t for the last time she tried to do that and almost crashed. She presses on the gas pedal harder than she needs to and the car shoots off down the road. 

It’s as if the stoplights know where you’re going and are determined to make you wait—you hit every single red light and each time, Agatha and you both groan like you’ve been denied the world’s greatest luxury. At one point, she gets so fed up with it that she makes a right turn, a U-turn, and then another right faster than the light changes. 

The air is thick with heat and tension and unspoken words brimmering just beneath the surface of the silence and finally, finally, she pulls into the parking lot of the Westview Inn, one of the nicer hotels in the town. 

You both throw open the doors and when you begin following her to the entrance, you can feel the stickiness between your thighs that has pooled from the anticipation. Your stomach begins to twist, butterflies fluttering for no reason, and your palms feel clammy. 

But then Agatha turns back to smile reassuringly at you from the front desk where she’s checking in and you push it away. You wipe your hands on your pants, eyes darting down to check out the swell of Agatha’s ass. There’s the sudden image of your fingers digging into her skin as she thrusts into you and you shift, antsy now with desire.  

“Thank you,” Agatha says, voice curt and short, to the receptionist, before swiping the keys from her hand and walking back toward you. She breezes past you and you jog to catch up to the elevators. Agatha taps the roomkey against her hand impatiently while you wait and finally, the doors ding open. 

She clicks the button for the fifth floor and the moment the doors shut, she’s pressing you against the side and her mouth is on yours. You moan and the sound is swallowed by her and her tongue is moving against yours and you close your eyes to soak her in. She tastes of cinnamon and coffee and you suck on her bottom lip to savor it. 

The elevator stops and Agatha practically drags you by the hand to room 513. Your shoes are soft against the plush gray carpet, low lights on the plastered walls, and you wonder how many other people come here for a romantic rendezvous with their lover. 

This is the hotel that Agatha stayed at after she moved out of the house she shared with your dad and walking down the hall gives you a sense of déjà vu. 

The room looks exactly the same. The fuzzy dark carpet, the small kitchenette, square table with two chairs, and the mossy green couch across from the television. Past the combined living room and kitchen is the narrow hallway to the bedroom, doors to the bathroom and the closet facing each other on the sides. 

The only real difference is the painting that hangs in the living room. The one in Agatha’s old room was of a dock on a lake. This one is a ferris wheel. 

You can’t help but think it’s almost fitting. Even though so much has changed since then, ending up back here like you have something to hide is a full-circle moment. 

Will you ever get off the wheel?

Once you move to New York, you assure yourself. There won’t be any more sneaking around, if that’s even what this is. 

“Just like old times,” Agatha says fondly. You smile halfheartedly, the thought of no real progress being made yet sobering you up just a little, but then she pulls you in closer and kisses you softly. The hardness in her pants presses against your upper thigh and you lose yourself in the feeling of her. 

She cups your cheeks to deepen the kiss and you wrap your arms around her shoulders. You pour all of your emotions into it—the joy at seeing her and how sad you’ve been without her and how much you’ve missed her and how much you love her. 

Agatha starts to walk backwards, pulling you with her, and you don’t ever want to let her go. 

The king-sized bed is so perfectly made that it almost feels wrong to mess it up. Agatha must be thinking the same thing because she pushes you gently against the wall and slots a thigh between yours for you to grind on. She tugs on your bottom lip with her teeth and you groan, slowly rutting against her leg. The pressure on your clit is delicious but fleeting and you hike one of your own legs up to get a better angle. Agatha’s hand slips to the back of your thigh to hold you up like that and she presses her thigh against you harder. 

“Agatha,” you pant, “I need you.” 

She smirks against your lips and her fingers slide up, now splayed against your hip, and she helps you move against her, helps you settle into a rhythm. The pleasure is dulled by the three layers of fabric separating your cunt from her leg but you grind down harder to feel more. Her other hand strokes up your side, her heat seeping through your shirt, and it makes your core feel like molten liquid. It feels like the room is spinning, like you’re drunk on her, and you whimper into her mouth. 

“What do you need, baby?” she murmurs. She pulls back from you, just a hair, so her gaze can smugly flick from your eyes down to your swollen lips and back up. 

You take her hand from your side and without breaking eye contact, drag it down your body until your fingers pause at the waistband of your pants. She toys with the hem, a smirk playing on her lips. 

“Is this what you want?” she asks innocently, dipping the tips of her fingers down inside. You moan at her bare skin against your public bone and nod frantically. She chuckles, breath heavy, and slides her fingers further until her middle finger is resting against your clit. You sharply inhale and she smiles. “How about this?” 

You keen when she presses against your clit and rubs a small circle around it, your hips jerking. Her hand is now sandwiched between your cunt and her thigh and you slightly pull up so she can have a little more room to work. 

She watches your face carefully as she moves her fingers to tease at your entrance through your panties, watches how your jaw slackens and your teeth find your bottom lip. Her eyes are hooded as they scan your face and the heat in them sends currents right to your cunt. 

“Please,” you whine. Agatha leans in to ghost her lips over yours as she pushes her fingers into your entrance slightly, soaking your underwear even more. You gasp. 

“I know you can do better than that,” she says in a low, taunting voice and expertly peels the gusset of your underwear to the side. 

Your hips rock but her fingers are hovering just out of reach from your cunt, but close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off them. “Please, Agatha,” you pant, chasing her lips with your own before pulling back, “I need you to fuck me, I’ve missed you so much, please mommy—”

Two of her fingers plunge into your cunt and your jaw drops with a guttural moan. Your eyes roll back in your head and your walls clench around her tightly. She lets out a small gasp and her forehead drops to rest against yours. 

“Fuck, baby, I’ve missed this—I’ve missed you,” she groans and draws her fingers out of you. Your hips buck to get her touch back and she quickly resheathes her fingers inside you. She curls them and finds your special spot, the spot she always intuitively knows how to find because she might know you better than you know yourself at this point. 

Her thumb swipes at your clit and you spasm, back arching off the wall and burying your hands into her dark locks. You hike your leg up higher against her waist with her help so she can get deeper and the pressure in your core makes you see stars. She’s moving fast and rough and you yelp when she twists her fingers inside you harshly. 

You pull her even closer against you, crash your lips onto hers, and moan into her open mouth. She returns it, tongue sloppily stroking yours, and you feel light, almost like you could float away. 

But you’re grounded when she starts to rub your clit and your core muscles tighten. Her lips trail down your cheek and to your neck where she sucks on your skin. A thrill runs through you at the thought of having marks from her, so when she goes back to New York you can look at your reflection and remember that she owns you. That you’re all hers. 

She scrapes her teeth along the length of your jugular and then bites at the juncture of your shoulder and neck and you make a strangled noise. 

And then Agatha stills her fingers inside you with a wicked grin and you struggle to keep the rhythm going, furiously grinding back and forth and trying to make up for the stimulation you just lost. With each roll of your hips, her fingers are forced deeper and she bites her lip while she watches you. 

“Agatha, please,” you beg, pleading with your eyes, and she smirks. 

“What is it, baby?” she coos and slowly begins thrusting into you again. Your head falls back against the wall, mouth agape. “Need mommy’s fingers to fuck you good? Need mommy to fill you up the way only I can?” 

You nod frantically and she smiles, satisfied. 

“That’s my girl.” 

She scissors her fingers and then curls and then pauses to fit a third one into you. You keen again, wetness squelching with each of her thrusts. You’re so full and tension is spreading throughout your whole body. You gasp each time she drives her fingers back into you and you’re a panting, shaking mess. 

Just for her. 

“Agatha, mommy, I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come,” you babble and she huffs out a laugh and rubs your clit faster. Sparks fly in your stomach and up your spine and your cunt grips her fingers. 

She pulls your leg that’s bent at her waist up even higher and her fingers reach a new depth inside you and the tension in your body explodes and you come all over her hand with a long moan. Her fingers keep fucking you, slowing down only the slightest bit, until you have to weakly push at her shoulders to get a break. 

Agatha pulls her fingers out of you carefully but you still wince at the sudden emptiness before bringing her hand out of your pants and holding up her glistening digits to the afternoon light streaming in through the blinds. 

Without being asked, you grab her wrist and envelope her fingers in your mouth, moaning sultrily at the taste of yourself. Her pupils dilate even more, almost no blue left at all, and she tugs her fingers out and sucks them into her own mouth. It’s like the air gets kicked out of your lungs when she closes her eyes and hums, like the mixture of your pussy and your saliva is too much for her to bear. 

When her fingers slide out with a wet pop, you drag her to you again by her hair, connecting your lips in the middle and your faint taste on her tongue dances with the hint of cinnamon. 

She pulls back, spins the two of you around, and then gently pushes you toward the bed. You take the hint, stripping off your shirt, underwear, and pants in the process, and watch in awe, perched on the edge of the bed, as she takes off her clothes too. 

“Did you drive all the way here with that on?” you tease, nodding your head to the harness around her hips with your favorite purple strap-on protruding from it. 

Agatha chuckles and strokes the length with her wet hand and you can see the smears of your juices along it. “Don’t be silly. I put it on once I got here. But thinking about it the whole drive? Fuck.” She moves closer to the bed like a lion stalking its prey. She stops right in front of you and tilts your head up by your chin even though your eyes keep darting back down to the toy. “Almost had to pull over to take care of myself.” 

Your breath catches at the image of her in her parked car on the side of the highway, hand furiously working in her pants. 

She smirks. “But you’re going to take care of mommy, aren’t you? Once mommy takes care of you?” 

“Anything you want,” you say earnestly. Everything is already yours. 

“That’s my good girl,” Agatha says softly and your insides grow warm. She strokes your cheek, a moment of gentleness in the otherwise hot and heavy sea you’ve been swimming in. 

You yearn for more, but the ache inside your cunt is throbbing. The toy is only a few inches away from you when you look back down and you grab ahold of the tip and pull her to you. 

Slowly reclining back onto the bed, she follows until she’s looming over you, arms bracketed around your head. Your fingers are still wrapped around the strap-on and you start to stroke it. Judging by the way her face contorts with pleasure, she can at least feel the base rub against her clit with each drag of your hand. 

Agatha leans down to pepper kisses to your chest. She runs her tongue along the edge of your bra, a trail of goosebumps following in the wake, and you moan softly. You angle the toy so the tip is pressed against your clit and you raise your hips up to rub. It feels so good against your sensitive nub and you can feel how slick your inner thighs are. The wetness between them only keeps growing. 

It doesn’t take long for you to work yourself up again but Agatha either doesn't notice or wants to drag it out, as she merely moves to mouthing at your nipple through your bra. 

So you grip onto her shoulders and tense your body and flip so she’s on her back and you’re on top of her. 

Agatha chuckles adoringly and runs her hands up your sides and fiddles with your bra. “Take it off, baby,” she rasps. “I want to see you.” 

Heat flashes through you and you nod, reaching behind you to unclasp your bra. Agatha swallows hard and cups your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. 

She’s still in her bra, a lacy green one, and you paw at it, desperate to see her too. She chuckles and sits up for a moment, unclasping it and then shrugging it off her shoulders. Her nipples are hard and pointing, a dusty rose color, and you can’t resist the urge to bend down and suckle on one of them. She moans and arches up beneath you, pushing the toy against your pussy and you grind down. You scrape your teeth against her, enjoying her sharp breath, before settling back onto her lap. 

You reach between you to position the tip at your entrance and sit down just slightly. The head of the toy pops in and your head falls back at the stretch. 

“Fuck,” you groan, slowly starting to bounce on the tip to get used to it. Your walls burn but eventually accommodate the length and girth and you’re able to slide all the way down. You stay seated, feeling how deep she is inside you and Agatha begins to rub at your clit soothingly. 

“Such a good girl, taking mommy’s cock so well,” she croons and you clench around her. Every breath you take, you can feel her filling you up deliciously. You nod, more to yourself than to her, because it’s been awhile since you’ve had anything so big in you. “Think you can start moving?” 

You rock forward in response to her pressing on your clit hard and moan when the toy presses against your g-spot. “Yeah, mommy,” you say breathlessly and slowly sit up, your cunt lips dragging against the toy. 

She looks at the strap once just the tip is left inside you and lets out a guttural sound—it is absolutely coated with your wetness. Heat flares inside you and you take the length back inside you, moving down easier this time. 

“You’re so fucking hot, baby,” she says when you begin to build up a steady pace of riding her. She thrusts her hips up with each of your drives down and you’re both panting and sweaty in no time. Agatha rubs your clit and you stop for a second to swirl your hips around, feeling her in every ridge in your cunt, and you groan loudly. 

“Mommy, feels so good,” you whine, resting your hands on her ribcage to get more leverage to continue moving up and down on the toy. You dig your nails in and when you slide your fingers up to play with her boobs, you delight in the indents in her pale skin. 

“I know, baby,” Agatha grunts, pistoning her hips up hard now and making you gasp each time. She’s hitting so deep inside you and there’s an intense, hot pressure feeling inside you. Your movements grow sloppy and gradually turn into short, shallow rutting because your muscles are starting to get stiff, but you try to persevere. “You’re taking mommy’s cock so well, fuck, honey, you’re so pretty—such a good girl for me.” 

Her words make you stutter and you whimper while you writhe on top of her. She sees your struggle and grips onto your hips before flipping you over, a role reversal mirroring your one from earlier. The toy never leaves your cunt but you clench around her tightly when she shoves your legs up and you bend your knees to cross your ankles around her lower back. Agatha drops to her forearms, face merely inches away from yours, and she begins driving the strap into you over and over roughly. 

There’s no thoughts in your head and you think you’re babbling something incoherently because she’s smiling down at you, cheeks red, forehead vein throbbing. Her nose brushes against yours and she’s breathing into your open mouth, you’re breathing her air right back, and she suddenly slows her pace down. Her eyes scan your face with a seriousness you haven’t seen before. 

“What—mommy—Agatha—” you gasp and she stops entirely, toy hilted all the way in you. Your walls clench around her, trying to get her to start moving again, but she has a strange look on her face. 

Agatha strokes your hair and meets your eyes. “I love you,” she whispers and your breath catches in your throat. 

“What?” 

She laughs like that’s a ridiculous thing for you to say and kisses you softly. Your clit throbs. 

When she pulls back, you study her. She’s not looking at you with any expectation, just honesty. “I love you, too,” you say softly. 

She smiles and thrusts into you, just once, but it’s deep. Your walls tighten and you inhale sharply. 

“I said it before, you know,” you tell her and Agatha thrusts again. “When we were on your couch.”  

She begins to pick up her pace, but keeps it gentle. Loving. “I know,” she admits and you gape at her. “I didn’t know if it was just a spur of the moment thing. You didn’t say it again and I didn’t want to freak you out by asking about it. But—” Agatha kisses you before nipping at your bottom lip, “—I’ve been wanting to say it for a while.”  

You roll your hips up to match each of her thrusts and feel a pleasure greater than almost anything you’ve ever felt before. She reaches down between you to rub at your clit again and your walls convulse. 

“I have, too,” you say and she smirks, scooting up closer to you which forces your legs up higher and allows her to get even deeper. Her fingers slip off your clit with how much of a soaked mess you are and you arch your back off the bed. Your vision blurs from pleasure and electricity races underneath your skin. 

“Fuck, baby, I love you so much,” Agatha groans, her other hand digging into your hip, keeping you angled up as she pounds into you. With the way she’s faltering ever-so-slightly, you think she might be getting somewhere too. “You’re so fucking perfect—fuck, you’re mommy’s good girl, want you to come all over my cock, honey, please—fuck, I’m gonna—” 

Your moan interrupts her as you come, any resolve you had left absolutely shattering, and there’s a gush of wetness from your pussy that soaks her stomach. She groans and falls apart too, her lips crashing onto yours, messy but perfect and even though you need to breathe, you don’t pull away. 

You never want to. 

She fucks you through both of your orgasms, whispering “I love you” over and over, but the words never lose their meaning. You say it right back and it overlaps until everything bleeds together and then her mouth is on yours again for what seems like hours. 

When you start to shiver, Agatha pulls out of you gingerly, smirking at the pool of liquid beneath you. You remain on your back, absolutely spent, while she climbs off the bed, unfastens the harness straps, and slides it down her legs. Your clit throbs weakly at the pink lines on her skin. 

She leaves the bedroom for a moment and comes back in with a washcloth. It’s warm and wet and you gasp when she cleans your cunt off. Agatha winks knowingly and you giggle. 

“Do you think you can get up for just a second?” she asks and you groan exaggeratedly before rolling off the side onto your feet. She playfully swats your ass before pulling the duvet down and gesturing for you to slide under the covers. 

You happily do and the moment she gets in next to you, you curl into her and she tucks an arm around you. Your eyelids feel heavy but you fight them because you want to spend as much time with Agatha as you possibly can before she goes back. 

But her warm fingers lazily stroke your back and she leans down to kiss your forehead before whispering again, “I love you,” and you fade off into sleep. 

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen  @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7  @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly @sweetmidnights @n3bula-cats @m1vfs @agathascoven1 @vyvvycg @upsidedowndanvers @agathaallalongg

[catboybiologist]

So.

Re: tumblr bans of transfemmes.

Let's ignore PhotoMatt for a moment. Manbaby tech CEO doubling down on a stupid decision and making himself look like more of an ass doing so is not a new phenomena.

Tumblr has consistently said, in both public statements and leaked internal communication, that they're essentially running a skeleton crew.

They keep saying that they don't have the resources to moderate, manually review posts, have any kind of appeal process, or anything. So, as people have widely received communications about, they seemed to have automated a significant portion of the moderation to operate solely on the quantity of reports (probably with a basic filter, eg quantity of reports regarding a certain post, within a certain timeframe) to automatically ban or shadowban accounts.

And so, they wipe their hands, both to the users, the public, and their own consciousness, and go about their automated operations.

All of this is likely true. Tumblr, at this point, is essentially abandonware internally, a kind of weird vanity project/dumpster ground for server infrastructure for Automattic. Likely, they don't want the bad press of "shutting down" fully. Or maybe the trickle of revenue they get here just barely exceeds operating costs, so why not keep it around?

Whatever is the case, the bans are a result of an automated process working in the background. I'm giving them some benefit of the doubt here, of course, we can't know anything for certain- but it seems like the individual bans are not based on any specific, manual action.

And that doesn't fucking excuse anything.

Because at some point, multiple people sat down at tumblr, and decided how to cut costs.

And they decided that the bare minimum of report abuse prevention was one of the first things on the chopping block.

Before the boops. Before GUI reconfigures.

They decided to cut something that is necessary to manage online communities.

They decided to cut something that ensures any targeted group will have any kind of community online.

And then, after all of that, the only manual intervention is doubling down on the shitty decisions that the automated systems make, and plucking reasons out of their ass for why they were the right decisions all along.

It's pure silicon valley brain. Blame the computer often and always. Use it to shield the active decisions you made when designing the computer that way. Treat it as a fact of life as opposed to something they actively made decisions for.

Is tumblr staff hitting the banhammer on each transfemme one by one? No.

Is tumblr staff deliberately crafting a system that allows TERFs and other conservative bigots to get rid of the "undesirables" for them? Yup. But they sure as hell are trying to not say the quiet part out loud. If they can always point the finger somewhere else, to the advertisers, to the automated systems, to the TERFs, then they can always have juuusssttt enough plausible deniability.

But being the "queerest place on the internet" requires concious acknowledgement that queer people will be targets of harassment, and you will have to protect against that.

Side note, this is why I do try to keep my blog at least somewhat SFW. Its one of the main reasons why I choose not to reblog all of the posts I'm tagged in- if the post is overtly NSFW, I've probably seen it, appreciated it, and consciously decided my level of interaction with it mostly based on how "tumblr friendly" it is. Is that bowing down to them? A little. It's also my choice. I value the community I have here. The pushes that y'all have given me gave me the strength to transition, and honestly gives me a lot of motivation to research HRT biology as much as I can, among many other things.

Yeah, I post pictures that are clearly meant to be found attractive in ways that are generally not socially acceptable , but never actual NSFW. I would like to think that I'm pretty safe from bans, but hey. Who knows. I don't want to lose my follower base, and the community around it.

And yeah, I'm gonna annoyingly remind you of the other places to find me, make sure to check my pin. If you don't know where to go, just find me on reddit and go from there, I'll post about it if anything happens.

[yanderemommabean]

Ask and you shall receive my queen 🫡🫡🫡🫡🫡🫡

Choso being known as the weird stoner with somewhat goth looks, stalking us and when we finally notice how much of a creep he's being and we start being absolutely hostile and mean to him, thats when his obsession becomes absolute (hes a masochist please please please) he just loves his mean bratty (girlfriend??????? soon to be gf for sureee for sureee) princess

what if we get grouped up for a class project and theres no way for us to get out of it????? it ends with him eating our pussy while we squirm with disgust and pleasure on his bed at his house, project forgotten in the background

“Come on. Do you really hate it that much?” Hell ask, pressing your legs further apart as his large shoulders shimmy to get more comfortable. “Cunt keeps getting wetter and wetter. Cute stiff little clit here-“ he chuckles, dragging his thumb over it to listen how your breath hitches. “Nice and sensitive.”

You hiss and shake, but can’t deny that yeah. This asshole unfortunately knows what he’s doing. And for a while as you give in, he seems to be in charge, but as things get more heated, Choso is stroking his pierced cock, eyes hazy and glossed over as he buries his tongue deeper, fucking into his fist as he groans and trembles.

“Please please please please-“ he babbles, spreading your wetness over his face, desperate to be smothered in you (panties never really did enough for him, though he’s thankful Mahito could snatch them for him.) You’re just so intoxicating! He wants to be here, every hour of every day, milking you dry and tasting you in his mouth and throat until he’s drunk.

You don’t really know what he’s asking for, but when he curls his fingers inside, you think you can connect the dots. He’s absolutely abusing the little bundle deep in your core, making your nerves set alight as you grit your teeth and feel your muscles tighten.

It takes one greedy suck to your clit to have you spraying the man’s face, crying out and going so taut you thought you’d break something.

Choso just whimpers, deep and satiated, like a dog thanking its owner. He’s licking up what he can, fingers still cruelly milking you as he goes completely puppy brained.

“Again? Please? Fuck, I won’t touch my cock I swear. I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll be such a fucking good boy I swear-“

Jesus Christ what changed?!

Choso flexes his fingers again, causing you to scream out and try to slap at his arm, but he just shuts you up with a rough kiss and demands that you cum again, that he’s worked hard to have this, that he won’t let you leave until he’s ruined you.

Ok well, maybe being paired up with him wasn’t the worst thing in the world anymore.

-Mommabean

[onelittlespiral]

FML: Video

“Shoot, I don’t know about this. Something about watching this feels weird.”

My bro just kept holding my face, “You said you wanted to be one of the bros dude. Just keep watching, this video will tell you everything you need to know”

“Yeah, you said that, but this is just static and nonsense, and something about it has me on edge. Just let me get out of here.”

“But don’t it speak to you? Isn’t there something you want to let out jock boy.”

“I…no, no I… I can’t… stop, what’s happening?”

“Jock boy is about to learn what being a bro is all about. Jock boy wants to listen carefully to his bro and watch the video.”

“No no no… but, it… it sounds so… calm…”

“Yeah jock boy, just like a mind vacation. Just let it happen. Good jock boy.”

“Must… listen… to… bruuuuhhh.”

Sometimes it takes a little convincing, but eventually they all fall. Their eyes grow wide before their muscles go limp and mouths drop open. It usually only takes a little bit for them to process. But when they finally do come too, it’s like a whole different world in there. The first one I did by accident. Found the weird file and sent it to my roommate as a joke. It wasn’t until I got back from class that I saw just how much power I now had.

Gone was the theater kid, in his place was a souped up bro ready to knock back some cold ones, and get sweaty in the gym. It was a surprise when he began rubbing my thigh in the sauna, and pulled me in for a kiss. I melted in his arms as he positioned me on the bench and began stretching me out. I was so relaxed he slid in with no lube, fucking me raw and hard as his tongue kept my mouth distracted from moaning. Thought I just got lucky there, happened to get a gay guy. But I quickly learned for him now, “any hole’s a goal.” And it was confirmed when I tried it with a second guy:

Good old Southern boy, and as straight as they came. Thought he was hot shit in class. Sent him the file when we were on a group project together. By the next day when he came in, he couldn’t add two numbers together with a calculator. He was still smug as hell but in bed, let’s just say he earned it. He was about as thick as an ear of corn, and he knew how to plow a field and spread his seed.

I had tried a couple others since then. A scholarship rival here. A group mate there. A couple disappointing dates that ended up really turning the night around. But my friend had finally gotten curious and started asking some questions. I didn’t need someone to question what was happening. I needed a lifting buddy. This was my first time trying to edit the file to get some different results.

“Hey, bro? What happened last night? I feel hung over as fuck..”

Holy shit he was massive. “Nothing too much bro. You just got fucking shit faced.”

“Huhuhu, yeah,” he gawfed, “sounds right.

It was time to try the trigger and see how much the changes worked, “Hey, jock boy, tell me your name.”

His laughter stopped as his eyes glossed over, “My name is Jack, but my friends just call me Jacked.”

“What do you want more than anything, jock boy?”

“To serve my bros,” he replied.

“Will you do anything for them?”

His mind flickered for a moment. I saw a look of confusion pass over him. He looked down, “Hey, what… WHAT HAPPENED? What did you do-“

I walked up and held his face“JOCK BOY, STOP.”

He tried to fight it, his mind pulling him back to the abyss. But as I watched his body slowly relax, I knew I had won even before he said, “Ye-yeah. Sure thing bro.”

“Jock Boy, will you do anything for your bros?”

His face broke out in a shiteating grin, “Fuck yeah, anything for my bros.”

“New exercise routine. You, face down, ass up. My bed. Now.”

He excitedly ran back to my bedroom. I heard the bed squeal under his weight. Good to know I could edit things. Can’t always let my bros have all the fun.