#captioned static

[processzine-org]

// relay

Reblogged from @crtripping A language we understand intuitively. CRT as canvas, feedback as brush. What’s broken speaks. Captioning the ghost of the signal. These are not malfunctions — they are memories with teeth.

We’re building something parallel. Monitors, paper, silence, distortion. Light reprojected. Sound refracted. Documenting the process behind perception.

Into it. All of it.

back here

[sylenth-l]

[elliewiltarwyn]

well.

i think we all knew what was going to happen.

all of us except Ellie herself, that is.

please chomp your friends responsibly.

(with @verysmallcyborg's Fornax!)

[bucket-crafts]

This is what you see before you slowly lose consciousness

[the-hidden-cringe-casket]

"The world you know never seems to take it slow, a tiring pace indeed...

So don’t delay, I’ll be here to save the day!

Just please don’t touch the dial!

Just stay here a while with me!"

[processzine-org]

// the camera that might remember

New addition to the Glitch Lab: a Boots 2200 Zoom Super 8, found in the loft. Still works. Still loaded. Film: unused, expired. A silent reel of possible memories.

We don’t know what’s inside. But the motor runs, the red meter ticks. Time advances — whether or not it leaves a trace.

For now, it rests as an artefact. But maybe — one day — we’ll load it with Kodak Tri-X B&W Reversal, and shoot a 3-minute sequence for the Process Zine Kickstarter video. A true analogue broadcast: grain, breath, decay.

Because some tools in the lab aren’t for daily use. They’re for ritual moments.

[nightlysweets]

[Image description: digital art of Bill Cipher as a baby, held up by his parents. His mother is a blue triangle with two eyes closed and a bow tie. His father is a red triangle with three eyes and a top hat. In the first image, they all look happy, captioned: "Family Matters."

In the second image, Bill's pupil is gone and his eye is blank. His parents silhouettes are grayed out, with a static effect and bloodied. The caption reads: "why did you do it." End ID.]

(ty @anistarrose for ID text!!)

haha. ha

Starts violently sobbing

[untitlzd]

rich boys don't lose

top!park jongseong x btm!male reader smut

Y/n was still recovering from the blog post. Finals were closing in, and he could barely think. Then Jay started making out in the library like he owned the school—loud, shameless, acting like no one would dare call him out. So Y/n gathered what little courage he had left—and did.

a continuation of ''rich boys don't get dirty.'' continued in "rich boys call it love."

warnings: dubcon, elitism, power dynamics, degrading, spit kink, rough sex, unprotected sex, no prep, drugs use, jay is bi, lowkey inspired by gossip girl

Y/n had nearly forgotten about the blog post—the grainy photo, the caption laced with venom, the slow, cold panic that followed. Not because it didn’t matter, but because something else—someone else—had taken up all the space in his mind.

Park Sunghoon.

The encounters started subtly. A shared glance across the quad. A brush of shoulders in narrow corridors. Then, more frequent. More precise. Always in places Y/n knew by heart—places he visited often, with enough routine to become predictable. And Sunghoon, for all his aloofness, was many things—but never careless.

The south wing reading room. The back alcove of the music building. The third-floor hallway that caught afternoon light just right, turning marble into gold. And—most haunting of all—the bathroom down the south hallway.

The same one.

The same stall.

Nothing ever happened when he showed up. Sunghoon never touched him. Never spoke. Sometimes he didn’t even look. But his presence filled the space like a ghost Y/n couldn’t outrun. He’d catch a glimpse of that posture—impossibly composed, sleeves rolled just so—and every nerve in his body would light up, remembering things he had no business remembering. Things he wasn’t sure he’d survive forgetting.

It wasn’t coincidence. It was calculated choreography. The kind that made avoidance impossible. Which might’ve bothered Y/n—if it didn’t already fascinate him.

Not that he was angry. He couldn’t even bring himself to regret what had happened. There was nothing to regret, not really. Just moments. Heat. Pressure. Teeth. The kind of memory that haunted in the quiet between tasks. And still, with everything on his plate, Sunghoon’s presence was more than just a distraction—it was a complication. One Y/n wasn’t ready to name. Not when his hands were already full with everything else.

St. Augustine’s moved on like it always did—unbothered, untouched. The uniforms stayed crisp, the secrets stayed buried, and Jake Sim remained effortlessly magnetic. He still moved through spaces like he’d designed them himself. Still touched Y/n when no one was looking. Or worse—when everyone was.

A palm resting on his knee beneath the dining hall table. Fingers trailing the inside of his wrist while they waited for class to begin. A casual brush of thigh-to-thigh in the chapel pews, held just long enough to mean something—and just short enough to deny it.

Jake never said anything about it. He didn’t need to. His attention was a performance, and he knew his lines well. But sometimes... sometimes he did more than perform. Sometimes, with just a glance or a tilt of the head, he’d make Sunghoon disappear.

Not in a dramatic way. Not like drama was ever their style. But there were moments—quiet, calculated ones—where Jake would slip beside Y/n and Sunghoon would vanish, almost as if by design. And whether that was intentional or not, Y/n couldn’t say. He didn’t dare ask.

It wasn’t that there was history between them—Jake and Sunghoon. Not that he knew of. But the air always shifted when they were near each other. Not hostile. Just… sharp. Like the static before a storm.

Jake wore charm like a second skin, polished and pristine. Every smile rehearsed. Every movement measured. Meanwhile, Sunghoon didn’t bother. His honesty was brutal, but clean. Cruel, but clear.

And Y/n? He was somewhere in the middle. Still playing both sides of a game he hadn’t agreed to join.

Y/n needed to slow down. Just breathe. Just think. But even that felt like a luxury these days.

The blog had gone quiet—not deleted, not forgotten, just… paused. Like it was holding its breath. And that silence only made things worse. Y/n didn’t know if he was a target waiting for the next blow, or if he’d simply been a pawn in someone else’s mess. Maybe he was nothing but filler content, background noise for a bigger scandal. The not-knowing gnawed at him. He hated being left in the dark. It made him feel smaller than he was.

Everyone else, meanwhile, seemed to shift gears. Slowly. Quietly. Study groups started filling faster. Even the loudest people spoke softer in the afternoons. There was an unspoken urgency hanging in the air—exams looming just ahead, like a storm everyone pretended not to see. Some students buried themselves in textbooks, hoping to impress absentee fathers or cold mothers. Others didn’t bother—they were legacy kids, already set to inherit companies or empires, tests be damned. And then there were the ones who wandered, looking just as lost as they felt.

Y/n wasn’t failing, but he wasn’t exactly trying either. He hovered comfortably in the middle—never top of the class, but never low enough to raise concern. He was sharp, capable, but too emotionally occupied to care about test scores. Studying felt like something people did when they didn’t have heavier things sitting on their chests.

Everyone had their method. Sunghoon was disciplined—quiet, focused, precise. He studied like he did everything else: with clean lines and zero room for error. Jake, on the other hand, studied people. He slipped between conversations like silk, hands always moving, eyes always scanning. He collected names and favors the way others collected grades, and somehow, it worked. Y/n didn’t mind either of them. He made conversation when necessary, nodded in the right places, offered his usual dry one-liners. He existed. And that was enough.

But there was one type of person Y/n couldn’t stand.

The entitled. The performative. The ones who acted like being born rich gave them the right to waste everyone’s time—and then dared to be proud of it.

Jay Park was that person.

In Y/n’s mind, if you wanted to live like a mess, go ahead. Get drunk. Smoke on rooftops. Hook up behind dorms. He didn’t care. But don’t do it during class. Don’t roll your eyes at professors who spent years building their reputations. Don’t lean back in your chair like the room owes you something. Don’t make a mockery of the opportunity so many others would kill for.

Jay did all of that, and more.

Just thinking about him was enough to make Y/n’s jaw clench.

It wasn’t just the eye-rolls in class, or the way he strutted into the room like time bent for him. It was the smirk he wore like it meant something. The lazy posture, the undone tie, the way his blazer always hung off one shoulder like he couldn’t be bothered to dress himself properly. He acted like he was too important to care. Like the world would adjust itself to him eventually.

But it wasn’t just Jay. Not really.

It was the name.

Jay Park, son of that Park—the one who ran an inherited Manhattan firm like it was his birthright. A firm that had been passed down like silverware, polished and untouchable. And of course, rival to Y/n’s father—who had built his empire from nothing. No legacy, no family favors. Just grit, late nights, and deals no one else was brave enough to touch.

Y/n had grown up hearing about the Parks. Hearing his father’s voice harden at the mention of them. “Inherited power is just arrogance with better tailoring.” And he knew—knew—Jay had been fed the same kind of poison from the other side. Their last names were oil and water. Their fathers saw to that.

So no, it wasn’t a coincidence that Y/n hated him.

It wasn’t personal. It was inevitable.

But God, did Jay make it easy. The way he looked at people—like they bored him. Like everything was beneath him. Like Y/n was just another nothing in a long list of things he couldn’t be bothered to care about.

And maybe that’s what made Y/n angriest of all.

Because if Jay was going to be his enemy, the least he could do was try.

But the breaking point came on a Thursday afternoon.

Y/n had only wanted a moment of silence. The second floor of the library was usually reliable—quiet, cold, steady. But when he turned the corner of the philosophy section, what he saw made his stomach twist.

Jay Park. Bent over a table like he owned it. One hand gripping someone’s thigh, the other resting beside a half-read book no one was actually reading. Their mouths were too close. Clothes disheveled. And worse—far worse—was what sat openly beside them: a small, clear bag catching the light through the window. White powder.

Nothing was hidden. Not the act. Not the drugs. Not the laugh in Jay’s throat as he leaned in, utterly unbothered by the quiet chaos of it all. A few tables away, students were hunched over notebooks, trying to survive exam season. Meanwhile, Jay was throwing away the rules like they never applied.

Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they never had.

But seeing him there, smiling like the universe owed him something—it made Y/n burn.

His fingers moved before he could think. Flash off. Angle sharp. One glance to make sure no one was watching. Click. One photo. Enough to tell a story.

And it was perfect.

Y/n stared at the screen for a second too long. The lighting was clean, natural. Jay’s face smug, high on himself and whatever else he’d taken. The bag was in frame. Clear. The composition almost felt intentional.

It reminded him of those once-a-year shots of lightning striking Christ the Redeemer. Clean. Rare. Timed down to the millisecond. The kind of photo that made headlines—respected for being both lucky and ruthless.

This was that. And he’d nailed it.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t confront anyone. Just walked out, let the image burn into the back of his mind, and didn’t stop until he was home.

It wasn’t until later, alone in his room, that the weight of the day fully landed. The photo still open on his phone. His chest still tight. His jaw locked.

The question wasn’t if he’d send it. It was to who.

For Y/n, finding the number didn’t take long. His father’s old planner sat at the bottom of the home office drawer. Leather-bound. Tidy. Sharp. Full of names that made other people flinch.

Y/n flipped through pages until he found the one he needed. He attached the photo. No message. No context. Just the image.

There were two ways this could go.

Either Jay’s father would ignore it, like his son ignored everything else. Or he’d finally see what everyone else refused to—and fix it.

Y/n set the phone down and stared out the window. The sky didn’t offer clarity. It never did.

But for the first time in weeks, he felt like he’d done something right.

Petty, maybe.

But right.

Y/n decided to take a shower.

Not the quick, functional kind—but the kind that felt like a reset. Steam curling up the walls, the kind of heat that scalded just enough to sting. He stood there longer than usual, letting the water hit the back of his neck like it could knock the weight off his spine. It didn’t. But it helped.

Dinner was already being prepared downstairs. The smell had drifted in while he toweled his hair. Something rich. Subtle. Their personal chef always did that—never asked what anyone wanted, just made what he knew would calm the house down. Tonight, it was roasted duck. Fresh vegetables. A sauce Y/n couldn’t name but finished entirely.

He ate alone in the dining room. Quiet. Slow. He didn’t even look at his phone. For a moment, the world was still—no Sunghoon, no Jake, no blog, no noise. He allowed himself to pretend it would stay that way.

Then his phone buzzed.

Just once. Soft. Dull.

He almost ignored it. But his curiosity always knew how to bite harder than his indifference.

It was a message.

Brief. Polite. Distant.

A thank-you for what he’d sent.

And an address.

He stared at it for a while, blinking slowly, jaw tightening as the meaning landed. It wasn’t just an address. It was that address.

The Park family firm.

Sleek, corporate, laced with generational arrogance. The kind of building that made people walk straighter when they passed it. It wasn’t just a place—it was a statement.

Y/n didn’t reply.

He tossed the phone onto the bed and sat on the edge, elbows on his knees, still tasting the glaze from dinner. He thought about what the message meant. What kind of father responds with an invitation after seeing that?

It was the closest thing to gratitude he’d ever get from someone like that.

Part of him was tempted to ignore it. Pretend he never saw it. Let Jay implode on his own timeline. But the idea of walking into that firm... of sitting across from a man who might actually be willing to hold his son accountable?

That curiosity itched.

And maybe—just maybe—it was the end of something. Or the start of something else entirely.

Still, he wasn’t going with hope. He wasn’t stupid.

He wasn’t expecting peace. Or grace. Or apologies wrapped in ribbon.

But he was expecting to see Jay’s face. The tightness in his jaw. The forced humility in his voice. Y/n wanted to hear the words that had been carefully typed in the message actually spoken. Wanted to see what someone like Jay looked like when cornered.

There was just one problem.

His father could never know.

Setting foot in the Park firm would be a betrayal of the highest order. A sin. His father would rather hear that Y/n had committed a federal crime than hear he’d voluntarily walked into that building. Pride, in this house, ran deeper than blood. And the Park name? That was a red line.

But some sins were worth it.

Some betrayals were too satisfying to resist.

And if it meant watching Jay Park squirm in a chair that was never built for shame? Then Y/n would gladly commit it. Y/n put on something presentable. Neat. Sharp.

He didn’t overthink it—but there was something deliberate in the way he carried himself afterward. Like he was getting ready for something final. The weight of the moment hung on his shoulders, but it didn’t feel heavy. If anything, it felt earned.

By the time he looked in the mirror, a smile had already settled on his face.

Not polite. Not rehearsed.

Wide. Satisfied. Victorious.

Like he had already won, and all that was left was to enjoy the aftermath.

As the elevator carried him down, the silence around him only made it better. He leaned back against the wall, alone with the sound of his own quiet laughter. It bubbled up without warning—light, free, almost absurd. Gratitude, maybe. Or just the thrill of knowing something was finally tipping in his favor.

The city greeted him with its usual noise.

Manhattan didn’t pause for anyone. But tonight, it felt like it was humming just for him.

He stepped out of the building, flagged the first cab he saw, and got in without hesitation.

Gave the address.

Sat back.

Smiling.

He was going. And for the first time in a long time, he felt good about it.

After some minutes, Y/n stepped out of the cab, paid the fare, and left a generous tip. Nothing could ruin this night—not even the fact that he was willingly stepping into that miserable excuse of a firm. He walked through the glass doors like the floor wasn’t even worth touching his shoes. Every step was soaked in disdain. He wanted to yell, right there in the lobby, that they’d all be jobless soon enough—once the firm came crashing down under the weight of the owner's immature son who couldn’t even subtract properly. But he didn’t. Just thinking it was enough.

Life felt too perfect to waste time gloating. He gave his name to the receptionist with a politeness that barely masked his satisfaction. She looked up, nodded once, and motioned toward the elevator. He was cleared to go up.

Of course the office was on the top floor.

Y/n kept the smile on his face the entire way. That smug, unshakable smile that had been sitting comfortably on his lips since dinner. It hadn’t moved. He didn’t expect it to.

Outside the door, he paused. Took a deep breath. Let the calm settle again. Then, he pushed it open.

The office was minimalist. Sleek. Dimly lit by the city bleeding through the tall windows. The chair behind the desk was turned away—facing the skyline. A little dramatic, but whatever. Y/n didn’t think twice.

“Good night, Mr. Park,” he said, still carrying that thread of pride in his voice as he stepped further into the room.

The chair turned.

And Y/n’s stomach dropped.

Jay.

The smile disappeared from his face like a line of coke near Jay—gone before you even realized it was there.

Fuck.

Jay stood up slowly, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. His grin was all teeth and poison.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, voice sugary, mocking.

Then he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a cracked iPhone 6, and tossed it onto the floor between them. The impact echoed.

“God, Y/n… you’re so fucking dumb,” Jay laughed, shaking his head. “Seriously. Full-on airhead.”

He took a step closer, voice rising with amusement. “You sent it to my dad’s old number. You really thought he was gonna care?”

Another laugh. Cruel this time.

“Do you honestly believe he gives a shit if I’m eating pussy instead of a cafeteria sandwich? You think he gives a single fuck what I do? Come on.”

Y/n didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just stood there, realization crawling over his skin like frostbite.

And Jay?

Jay looked like he was enjoying every goddamn second of it.

Y/n didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just stared, jaw tight, the inside of his cheek aching from how hard he was biting down. His hands curled slowly into fists at his sides—not to swing, but to stay still. To stay collected. Jay wanted a reaction. He could feel it in the smugness laced through every word, every slow step closer.

Y/n wasn’t going to give it to him. Not that easily.

Jay tilted his head, watching him. Studying. Like Y/n was some strange, fragile thing on display—seconds away from cracking.

“You’re quiet now,” he murmured. “Where’s that smug little smile from earlier, huh? The one you wore in the elevator like you were walking into some kind of coronation.” He tilted his head, grin spreading slowly. ”You really thought I wasn’t watching? I saw you the second you stepped out of the elevator. Security cameras, Idiot. You walked in like you owned the place."

Y/n exhaled slowly, trying to keep the heat in his chest from spilling into his face. “You’re a piece of shit,” he said, voice low, controlled.

Jay’s lips curved, just slightly. “And yet… here you are.”

He took another step, slow and easy, the way someone does when they know you won’t stop them.

Y/n’s breath hitched—not because he was afraid. But because the space between them had thinned to something dangerous. Something charged. Something stupid.

“Tell me,” Jay said, voice dipping lower, “what exactly were you hoping to see tonight? Hm? My dad? A lecture? Maybe even some forced apology while I stood in the corner like a scolded prince?”

Y/n didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Jay was already closing the distance.

His tone dropped again—just enough to hum against Y/n’s skin. “Or maybe… you wanted to see me ruined. Humbled. Humiliated. Is that it?”

Y/n met his eyes, unblinking. “You deserve worse.���

Jay smiled again, but this one was different. Slower. Hungrier. “Yeah? And yet, I’m the one who has you standing here… red-faced… breath all shaky. Tell me, Y/n—are you mad?”

Y/n’s eyes narrowed, but his body betrayed him. That flicker of heat. That sharp, gut-punch pulse that came with proximity and resentment and something else he didn’t want to name.

Jay stepped even closer, close enough that Y/n could smell his cologne—something clean, expensive, and utterly infuriating.

“You wanna hate me so bad,” he whispered, leaning just slightly forward. “But you’re still here.”

Y/n opened his mouth—to say something, to insult him, to regain control—but the words never came.

Because in one sudden, precise motion—Jay spat in his face.

The air snapped between them.

Y/n flinched, barely—but it was enough.

The spit clung to his cheek, warm and humiliating. His breath caught. Every muscle in his body went still, buzzing with shock and fury and something far, far more dangerous underneath.

Jay didn’t flinch. Didn’t move back. Just tilted his head, gaze fixed on Y/n’s face like he was watching art unfold.

Then, calmly—almost softly, he asked:

“Does that turn you on?”

Y/n’s chest heaved with the inhale he tried to bury. His jaw clenched tighter, lips twitching with a dozen unsaid things.

He wanted to hit him. 

He wanted to walk out. 

He wanted to fucking stay.

Jay smirked.

“Bet it does.”

Y/n’s fists stayed clenched at his sides, but his body was doing something he couldn’t control—something traitorous.

He felt it too late. That slow, aching heat settling low in his stomach, crawling under his skin and down. It was the humiliation, the power play, the way Jay’s voice wrapped around his neck like a ribbon pulled tight. His mind screamed at him to move, to react, to do something—but his body had already responded.

Jay noticed. Of course he did.

His gaze dropped, deliberately slow. Lingering. And when his eyes found what he was looking for, his smile stretched wider—lazy and victorious. He dragged his teeth across his bottom lip, not even pretending to hide the thrill of it.

“Well, well,” Jay murmured, tone syrupy with mock affection. “Looks like you really are enjoying yourself.”

Y/n said nothing, but the flush in his cheeks deepened, throat burning as he tried to shift—subtle, defensive—but it was too late. The outline in his pants was obvious now. Clear. And Jay had already seen it.

“God,” Jay breathed, almost laughing. “Is that why you sent the picture?”

He stepped forward again, toe to toe now, voice dropping into a low, dangerous hum. “Was it jealousy?”

Y/n’s jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

“You saw me with her,” Jay continued, dragging out each word like it tasted sweet on his tongue. “Bent over the table. My mouth on her neck. My hands under her skirt. And what—suddenly you wanted to be the one moaning for me in the middle of the library?”

Y/n flinched, but he didn’t move away.

Jay leaned in, his breath ghosting over Y/n’s ear. “Did you imagine it was you?”

And then—his hand moved.

Smooth. Confident. Jay slid his palm over Y/n’s bulge, cupping him through the fabric with slow, deliberate pressure. His fingers curved slightly, like he was testing weight, testing control. Y/n’s entire body jolted—shoulders stiff, breath caught.

The contact was hot. Wrong. And it made Y/n burn.

Jay pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again—dark, gleaming, cruel. “Did you jerk off to the photo before you sent it?”

Y/n still didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His hands twitched at his sides. His chest rose sharply, but the heat in his pants pulsed harder beneath Jay’s grip—shameful and alive.

Jay smiled wider. “Yeah,” he whispered. “That’s what I thought.”

Jay’s hand didn’t move at first—still pressed firm against Y/n’s cock, like he was weighing it, owning it. Then his gaze dragged down, slow and hot, eyes burning a path over Y/n’s body.

“You know,” he muttered, voice low and thick, “for someone who pretends to be so fucking composed… you’ve got the filthiest body I’ve ever seen.”

Y/n flinched, breath catching in his throat.

Jay smiled. “Bet you don’t even know what you look like right now. All flushed and hard, like you’re seconds from begging. Like you want me to bend you over this desk and ruin you.”

His voice dropped further, curling dark around the edges. “Would you cry if I fucked you here, hm? Would that pretty little mouth still talk back if I had you moaning into the wood?”

Y/n’s fists clenched tighter—but he couldn’t deny the pulse between his legs. He hated how right Jay was. How everything in his body screamed to move, to fight, to stay.

Jay’s hand moved suddenly—down, lower, grabbing Y/n’s ass with both hands, squeezing hard. Fingers digging in like he owned it, thumbs pressing deep into muscle.

“Fuck,” he breathed, half to himself. “This ass? No wonder you walk around like a tease. You’ve probably got no idea how fuckable you are.”

Y/n gasped, hips jerking forward involuntarily. It wasn’t a moan, not really—but it wasn’t denial either.

Jay leaned forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You wanna be mad at me so bad, but your body keeps fucking whining for it.”

That was it. Y/n shoved him. Hard.

Jay stumbled back a step, laughing—low and breathless, eyes shining like he’d just won a game no one else knew they were playing.

Y/n’s chest lifted and fell, fists shaking, skin burning where Jay had touched him. His cock strained hard against his pants, leaking, aching.

“Stay the fuck away from me,” he snapped—finally, voice rough, cracked open.

Jay grinned. “Oh, now you’ve got a voice?”

He licked his lips, eyes dark and hungry. “Good. You’re gonna need it when I make you scream.”

Jay moved with the cold confidence of someone who already owned Y/n —each step slow, deliberate, like he was circling something he'd already caught.

Y/n barely had time to react before Jay’s hands were on him again, gripping the front of his shirt and slamming him back against the office wall. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, his head thudding against the sleek surface. Jay’s body pressed flush against his, all hard muscle and searing heat, pinning him in place.

“You don’t get to push me away,” Jay growled, voice rough with something feral. “Not after this.”

His knee slid between Y/n’s thighs, forcing them apart, and Y/n’s breath hitched as the pressure sent a jolt of pleasure straight to his cock. He bit down on his lip, refusing to give Jay the satisfaction of hearing him break.

But Jay wasn’t having it.

One hand fisted in Y/n’s hair, yanking his head back, exposing his throat. Jay’s mouth crashed against his skin—not a kiss, not even close. Teeth scraped over his pulse point before biting down, hard enough to bruise. Y/n gasped, hips jerking forward, his body betraying him all over again.

“Fuck—!”

Jay pulled back just enough to smirk at him, lips glistening. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice dripping with dark amusement. “Let me hear how much you hate it.”

His free hand slid down Y/n’s chest, fingers skimming over the outline of his cock through his pants, teasing. Y/n’s breath came in sharp bursts, his body trembling with the effort to stay still, to not fucking grind into Jay’s touch like some desperate slut.

But Jay knew. Of course he did.

“You’re so fucking pathetic,” Jay breathed against his ear, fingers finally undoing Y/n’s belt with practiced ease. “Sending that picture like you had some kind of power over me. Like you could ruin me.”

His hand slipped past fabric, wrapping around Y/n’s cock in one smooth motion.

Y/n choked on a moan, his hips bucking forward on instinct.

Jay’s grip tightened, thumb swiping over the leaking tip, spreading the wetness in slow, torturous circles. “Look at you,” he taunted. “Already dripping this much. You really thought you could hide how desperate you are?”

Y/n’s nails dug into his own palms, his entire body coiled tight, torn between shoving Jay off and begging for more.

Then his hand moved—fast, ruthless—stroking Y/n with a punishing grip, twisting just right on the upstroke, thumb pressing into the slit with every pass.

Y/n’s knees nearly gave out. A broken sound tore from his throat, his head falling back against the wall.

Jay watched him unravel with a smirk, his own breathing ragged, his own need obvious in the way his hips pressed forward, grinding against Y/n’s thigh. “That’s it,” Jay murmured, voice rough. “Dripping for someone you swore you’d never touch.”

Y/n’s vision blurred. His body burned. And then—Jay stopped. Just like that. His hand withdrew, leaving him throbbing, desperate, cock twitching in the cold air. His eyes flew open, meeting Jay’s darkened gaze. Jay licked his lips, slow, deliberate. “Beg,” he said. His chest heaved. The smirk turned vicious. “Or do I have to make you?”

Y/n swallowed hard, pride warring with the fire in his veins. In one brutal motion, Jay spun him around, shoving him face-first against the wall. A hand pressed between his shoulder blades, keeping him pinned as the other yanked his pants down just enough. His breath came in ragged bursts. Jay leaned in, lips grazing his ear.

“This,” he murmured, voice dripping with venom, “is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Then he spat into his palm.

Y/n barely had time to process before Jay’s fingers pressed against him—dry, rough, unforgiving. He tensed, a sharp gasp escaping him. Jay laughed, low and dark. “Too late to back out now.”

And then—

He pushed in.

Y/n’s entire body jerked, his fingers scrambling against the wall. It burned, it ached, it fucking tore—and yet, his cock throbbed, leaking against the cold glass behind him.

Jay didn’t give him time to adjust. His fingers curled, scissoring, stretching, relentless.

“Fuck—Jay—!”

Jay’s breath was hot against his neck. “Say it again.”

Y/n’s nails dug into the wall.

Jay’s free hand gripped his hip, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. “Say my fucking name.”

Y/n’s body shook.

Jay added a third finger.

A ragged moan ripped from Y/n’s throat.

Jay’s teeth grazed his shoulder. “Good boy.”

Then his fingers were gone. Y/n barely had time to breathe before Jay’s cock pressed against him—hot, heavy, relentless. Jay didn’t ask. He didn’t wait. He shoved in—hard. Y/n’s mind blanked, vision flickering with stars. A broken cry tore from his lips as Jay buried himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Jay groaned above him, his grip tightening on Y/n’s hips. “Fuck,” he hissed. “Tighter than I fucking thought.”

Y/n panted, his body stretched to the limit, every nerve alight with pain and pleasure and something dangerously close to need.

Jay didn’t give him mercy

He pulled back—only to slam in again.

And again.

And again.

Each thrust was punishing, each snap of his hips driving Y/n further into the wall, further into the haze of pleasure-pain.

“This—” Jay growled, fingers digging into Y/n’s skin, “—is what you get.”

Another thrust, harder.

“You don’t—”

Another.

“Fuck with me—”

Another.

“And walk away.”

Y/n’s body burned. His cock ached, untouched, leaking against the glass. Every drag of Jay inside him sent sparks up his spine, his toes curling, his breath coming in ragged, punched-out gasps. Jay’s pace was relentless, his grip bruising, his breath hot against Y/n’s neck. “You feel that?” he panted, voice wrecked. “That’s what you fucking did to me.” Y/n couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. All he could do was take it.

Jay’s hand slid around his waist, fingers wrapping around Y/n’s cock at last.

Y/n sobbed.

Jay stroked him in time with his thrusts, rough, perfect, maddening.

“Come for me,” Jay demanded, voice raw. “Come on my cock like the fucking slut you are.”

Y/n’s body obeyed with no denial.

His orgasm ripped through him like a live wire, his back arching, his vision going white as he spilled over Jay’s fingers with a broken cry.

Jay fucked him through it, his thrusts turning heavier and rougher., his grip bruising.

Then—with a low groan—he buried himself deep and came, his hips stuttering against Y/n’s ass.

For a moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing.

Then Jay pulled out.

Y/n’s legs gave out. He barely caught himself against the wall, his body trembling, his mind hazy.

Jay stepped back, adjusting his clothes with a smirk.

“Now we’re even.”

And with that, he turned and walked out—leaving Y/n wrecked, used, and utterly fucking ruined.

note: hey everyone! just sliding in here at the end to check on you — did we survive this chapter? barely? love that for us hehe. thank you so much for all the love, seriously. i wasn’t expecting any of it when i first started posting, and now here we are at the second-to-last chapter… kinda wild. you’ve made writing this such a fun ride, and i’m really excited (and a bit nervous) for you to see how it all ends. finale soon — rest up, hydrate, and maybe emotionally prepare a little. see you there :)

[kora-kat]

For once, Elias minds his own damn buisness

Decription under cut

[Description: a four panel comic depicting Elias Bouchard and Not Sasha from Magnus Archives. Elias approaches a light skinned, blond haired not!Sasha.

Elias: Miss James? Why are you white now?

In the background there is an image of the original Sasha with dark skin and curly black hair tied up in a ponytail. Caption says "1 week ago"

Third panel shows a ghastly humanoid silhouette with eyes and teeth highlighted in white. The background full of static.

Elias turns and walks away while not!Sasha smirks.

Elias: Understandable, have a nice day.]

[wormnamedwax]

Star Trek: Deep Space Nine - Season 6, Episode 9, Statical Probability

i’ve seen people posting around the first image but it’s even funnier with captioning. look at his big beautiful eyes

[malusokay]

Our Brains Are Rotting and Cicero Knew

On distraction, decline, and the intellectual rot Cicero saw coming. (from my substack)

O tempora, o mores—Cicero’s lament still echoes, like a parent sighing at their kid for putting the milk back in the fridge empty. He hurled those words into a world that thought it was collapsing, but honestly, Rome didn’t even know what real rot was yet. Cicero stood in the Senate, cloaked in self-righteous fury (as only Cicero could), accusing the guilty and clutching at virtues that were slipping through his fingers. “Iniquissima haec bellorum condicio est: prospera omnes sibi vindicant, adversa uni imputantur,” he said—history is cruel, always ready to share the credit for triumphs but quick to pin failure on a scapegoat. And oh, how disappointed he’d be to know his words, once etched in fire, are now buried in scrollable trivia, nestled between TikTok trends and threads about the dying sourdough starters.

Our rot is quieter and more subtle, almost polite, like water slowly ruining the foundation of a house no one even lives in anymore. It doesn’t come with swords or collapsing senates, but with screens. Flickering, endless screens. A thousand voices all talking at once until it’s just static, white noise buzzing in your brain. The kicker? We hold the wisdom of entire empires in our sweaty little hands, every speech, every scroll, every fragment of brilliance painstakingly saved by people who didn’t even have plumbing—and we just let it rot beneath algorithmic garbage. We traded Lucretius for lip-syncs, ars est celare artem for captions written by bots.

And Cicero? Poor Cicero, who believed so fiercely in the res publica, in the duty to preserve both morality and intellect—he’d probably choke on his wine to see us not just distracted but actively sabotaging ourselves. “Nescire autem quid ante quam natus sis acciderit, id est semper esse puerum,” he warned, because ignorance of history is the fastest way to stay a child forever. And, well, here we are: eternal toddlers in the nursery of civilization, sucking on the pacifier of whatever mindless content the algorithm spits out next. We’re not just lost; we’re willingly staying lost. It’s almost impressive.

Yet we think we’re clever. That’s the worst part. We think we’ve outsmarted the ancients, with our steady diet of soundbites and videos, each one shorter and dumber than the last. Meanwhile, Cicero would be rolling his eyes so hard they’d get stuck. “Legum servi sumus, ut liberi esse possimus,” he’d remind us—slaves to the rules we create, but these aren’t the rules of a republic. They’re the rules of a distraction economy. We call it freedom, but it’s more like gilded captivity. Every thought reduced to a trend, every story a fifteen-second flicker. What freedom is that? It’s like decorating your prison cell with fairy lights and pretending it’s cosy.

The rot isn’t just in the content. It’s in the way we approach it, like tourists in a museum, glancing at the masterpieces but never stopping long enough to feel their weight. We skim the Iliad, marvelling at its age but missing its fire, its warnings, its unbearable humanity. We quote the poets but only because it sounds sharp on a tote bag, not because we understand the exhaustion behind it. The ancients fought for words like these, polished them with the desperation of people who knew empires could crumble at any moment. And what do we do? We scroll right past, looking for something quicker, easier, something that sparkles.

We are exactly the people Cicero feared: writing tweets no one will read, building monuments to vanity instead of virtue, shrugging off the weight of history for the cheap thrill of now. The ancients taught us better. They polished their words like marble, made them heavy and sharp, meant to outlast empires. But we’re just tossing them aside to chase the next shiny thing. It’s not that we don’t know better—it’s that we don’t care.

And so, our brains rot. Not from hunger, but from excess. From too much noise, too much fluff, too much everything. The cry of O tempora, o mores isn’t dead, but it’s definitely hoarse. And the worst part? We’ve stopped listening. We don’t even notice the silence.

thank you for joining me on my little 4 AM Cicero brain-rot spiral. Usually, things like this stay buried in my notes, but where’s the fun in that, right? Lots of love, Malu <3

[deadghosy]

HAZBIN HOTEL HEADCANNONS WITH ENDERMAN! READER

Prompt: a 9’5 creature comes by and randomly builds the crew things.

ITS ACTUALLY FUNNY CAUSE IMAGINE YOU BEING CHARLIE IN THIS SITUATION-

You hear a knock at the front door of the hazbin hotel and open it to see a 9’5 TALL ASS PERSON WITH DARK PURPLE SKIN WITH SMALL PURPLE FRECKLES SCATTERED AROUND THEIR BODY….

Immediately door slam like Alastor got in the pilot….

She kept reopening the door as you finally got tired of that bullshit and teleported inside as you croaked…your jaw unhinging in a weird attractive way as your eyes were blinded by a black blindfold.

“Uhm sir? Are you here for the hotel?” Charlie asked as you nodded turning slowly with a croak. You pulled out a wrench ready to show how you wanted to work for her. Charlie smiled awkwardly as she shows you around the place. Literally you had to duck a lot to the point you had to crawl like a baby just to fit in the room…

Embarrassing it is…..

But at least you can kinda shapeshift a bit to 3 feet less as you are at 6’5 which made the others feel a lot more comfortable about you being comfortable in this height as you still kinda crouch to pet keekee.

I feel like Lucifer will like you personally because of how you like to build and take things apart to renew things. So he definitely brings you in his workshop as he rants about his duck collection as you slightly grumble unconsciously as purple pixels fly around beside you.

Dead ass…you are beautiful with your purple ender eyes they glow behind your blindfold in the dark…the hotel cast and even say as they would see them from afar at night.

I headcannon Enderman! Reader to have slight muscles but is really strong despite their skinny look. But really they/he has a nice build under his working clothes.

Vaggie was shocked to see you teleport away before she could prick you with her angelic spear. She definitely had Alastor keep a look on you…but you only built and fixed around the hotel like a handy man.

I can see Angel dust taking a picture of you while you are behind him working having your sleeves up as you work as the Snapchat caption says, “He’s working hard to please me” as a joke. You definitely got death threats as you just stare at your hellphone confused as you block them all.

Sir Pentious has accidentally looked you in your eyes once and your unhinged jaw as you screeched at him as a static sound enters his head …it made him scared of you for almost five months until you explained and calms him down….you didn’t like to be scary to others.

Angel had told you how about how you could be a model with your skinny yet built body as you just stood then staring at him through your blindfold.

Tbh your dynamic with Angel dust is “girlboss” x “househusband” as you literally build and fix things

I bet reader built Lucifer a duck boat once as you stand there as Lucifer looks like he is about to cry in the duck boat you built as he gives you a thumbs up. It was a derpy sight but funny.

I headcannon Enderman! Reader to always pick things up, nifty including as she just smile kicking her feet back and forth with a smile. “I like em! Let’s keep him/them!”

YOU KNOW HOW IRON GOLEMS HOLD FLOWERS?! YEAH ENDERMAN!READER HOLDING FLOWERS FOR THE RESIDENTS 🦆✨

It would be funny be at a height comparison with Alastor as he just smiles as you stand there fidgeting with your hands.

I can see husk raising a brow at you like “🤨 who the hell is this guy?” As you walk a bit sluggish holding your tool box

I can also imagine reader having slight difficulty at reading the room or having social skills as they were isolated from people before dying definitely. Like you would croak softly patting Vaggie when her secret was out only for her to push you away as you were trying to say you fixed the toilet.

You stood there confused until husk just sat you down before you teleported after her.

You attacked a sinner for trying to rob you as they grabbed your blindfold in accident only to get attacked and a see an unhinged jaw…next thing they saw was a punch.

Charlie definitely cleaned you up, she was just confused who blood it was as you stay quiet and quietly croaked in your throat.

I headcannon enderman’s to have a raspy voice because they can’t talk but try to. As it’s either deep or a decent voice tone.

Imagine if enderman! Reader met the other overlords before their decrease in height as they stare up at you kinda intimidated by your height. Their necks definitely hurt 

HOPE YOU LIKE IT! 🦆✨

[callikari]

──────── 💼 WE HUG NOW, LACY

。i have a feeling u got everything u wanted, and ur not wasting time stuck here like me.

... 沉在允 x fem!reader 🥂 angst 。 jake is an idol, reader isn't .. 4200 wc (·•᷄‎ࡇ•᷅ ) emotional neglect , implied cheating , no comfort , mentions of social media

【 more like this 🌙 】

• part 2 | ceilings

you used to love tour season.

it was the time he was his most alive—posting little updates from different cities, rambling in excitement over every performance, voice cracking from rehearsals, face glowing under stage lights. and you? you were always there, in the background. the one he texted after every stage. the one he called when the hotel room got too quiet.

you’d wrap yourself up in his voice like a blanket, whispering goodnights across time zones, promising to wait just a little longer.

“i miss you,” he would say.

but somewhere along the way, that stopped.

and you can’t remember when the shift happened—when the texts started getting shorter, when the replies took hours, then days. when your name stopped showing up in the small ways it used to: no more blurry selfies captioned “missing someone.” no more late-night facetime calls where he asked about your day before venting about his.

he became busy. too busy.

and you told yourself it was okay. he was on a world tour, after all. things were hectic. he had a million things pulling at him from all directions—staff, rehearsals, fans. you were just… one of them.

but it didn’t stop the ache. the coldness that crept in when your messages were left on read. when your good mornings went unanswered. when his instagram stories showed him laughing with people you didn’t know, in places you’d never been invited to.

and then came her.

lacy.

that wasn’t her real name, of course. but it was the only one your brain allowed you to give her—the only way to put a label on the ghost haunting the corners of jake’s life.

a new member of le sserafim. a recent addition. pretty, popular, and everywhere he was.

you first saw them together in a fan edit.

at first, it was just the usual nonsense. stan twitter being delulu again. “they looked at each other for 0.2 seconds!!! they’re definitely dating!!!”

you rolled your eyes, laughed it off.

but then the videos kept coming. then pictures. then interviews, where their names were brought up together just a little too often. jake smiling when hers was mentioned. her giggling at something he whispered during an awards show.

you wanted to trust him. god, you wanted to.

but the silence kept growing. and so did the disappointment.

you tried asking him about it once.

he was in paris. you were sitting in your apartment, curled up in the hoodie he left behind last winter.

“have you been… hanging out with someone new?” you asked, careful, quiet.

there was a pause. static on the other end.

“you mean the new le sserafim member?” he chuckled, and you flinched at how easily he said her name. “we’re labelmates, babe. we see each other all the time. nothing’s going on.”

“okay,” you whispered.

he didn’t say i love you that night.

you started seeing her everywhere after that. maybe she was always there and you were just now noticing. in the background of tour vlogs. tagged in stories. always two steps behind jake. always smiling.

and the worst part?

she was beautiful.

no, not just beautiful—she was unreal. effortless. the kind of girl who floats through a room and makes people stop mid-sentence. skin like porcelain. eyes that held galaxies. every photo of her looked like it had been dipped in gold.

you hated how she made you feel. how every scroll through your feed left you questioning your worth. how you started avoiding mirrors. how you downloaded and deleted every editing app on your phone just to blur out the imperfections you used to never notice.

she became the person you couldn’t stop thinking about.

not jake. her.

how could he look at you, and then look at her?

it was raining the night you found out.

you were on your way home from work, drenched, exhausted, heart heavy. you hadn’t heard from jake in two days. your last text—“call me when you can? miss you.”—was still unread.

you stopped by a corner café, phone in one hand, umbrella dripping rainwater onto your shoes.

and then you saw it.

a blurry photo on some gossip page. not even a dispatch post. just grainy enough to make you hope it was fake.

“rumors spark as jake of enhypen is spotted leaving a parisian hotel with le sserafim’s newest member. insiders say the two have been ‘close’ for months.”

your heart dropped.

you stared at the image—him in a black cap, hand on the small of her back. her leaning into him, soft smile, like she belonged there.

like you never did.

you didn’t cry. not at first. just sat there, blinking at the screen, watching as the rain painted streaks across the glass window.

your phone buzzed.

it was jake.

finally.

you answered, voice already cracking.

“hey,” he said, breathless like he’d just been running. “you okay?”

you didn’t know how to respond. your throat felt tight. your hands shook.

“you’re with her,” you said.

silence.

then a sigh. “look… i was going to tell you. i swear, i just didn’t know how—”

click.

you hung up.

days passed.

then weeks.

he tried to call. once. then twice. you never answered. there was nothing left to say.

your room still smelled like him. your playlists still had songs he sent you. your hoodie still held his warmth.

but you were done waiting.

done shrinking yourself to fit into the corners of his life.

because lacy might be everything you weren’t—perfect, polished, adored—but she didn’t have you.

your loyalty. your patience. your quiet love that wrapped around jake even when he didn’t deserve it.

you weren’t lacy.

and for the first time in a long time, you were okay with that.

维维安的 taglist : @ash-engen @cheruphic @jungwonbropls @chrrific @ijustreallylike2read

© callikari — all rights reserved

[monicfever]

mine before you knew it. 𝜗𝜚 ben poindexter.

dex has been watching you long before you ever noticed him. every post, every route, every person you talk to; he's documented it all. when someone flirts with you at a party, he decides it’s time to make himself known. you don’t remember inviting him in, but he’s already in your house, and he doesn’t plan on leaving.

cw ᝰ .ᐟ canon dex behaviour ,, stalker!dex ,, obsessive tendencies ,, gn!reader (you/your) ,, drinking ,, jealousy ,, dark themes

you didn’t notice him at first.

that part used to bother him. not that you were careless, he never thought that, but that you didn’t see him. not in the way he saw you. maybe you caught glimpses, brushed past him in crowded halls or skimmed over his name in comment sections or replies, maybe you liked a message he left, once. that was enough to ruin him for days.

he still remembers the first time you looked through him like he wasn’t there. it was raining. you had one hand over your phone, shielding the screen from the drizzle, scrolling — laughing — and he watched you laugh at something someone else had said. not him. not yet. that’s when he knew it couldn’t stay like this.

you needed someone who would keep track of things when you didn’t. someone to notice the people getting a little too close. someone who pays attention. dex pays attention like it’s religion. your posts, your playlists, the way you smile with closed lips when you're tired. he has it all. every route you take home, every photo tagged, every drink you order even though you never finish it. he keeps it like it’s sacred. like it matters.

because to him, it does.

he doesn’t sleep much anymore. not since he found you, not since your presence became a constant static in his brain. sleep feels like missing something. like letting go of a thread that he's wound too tightly around his fingers to ever want undone.

he scrolls through your stories with the kind of reverence people reserve for prayer. slows down when you’re on camera. pauses. rewatches. the way your lashes cast shadows when you glance down, the flicker of your fingers tucking hair behind your ear. background noise doesn’t matter. no one else matters, it’s always been just you.

your laugh — he has audio saved. cropped clean, renamed, catalogued by date. you laughed differently last week. more tired. he noticed. that’s why he’s here, why he’s watching. someone needs to be paying attention.

the air in his room is dim and dust-heavy, lit only by the screen glow, your face reflected faintly in the dark glass of his monitor. next to it a corkboard cluttered with ticket stubs, receipts, blurry polaroids. things you touched, things you threw away. he kept them all.

there’s a looped video playing in the background. you’re walking down a street, wrapped in a jacket that isn’t warm enough. he knows that jacket. it’s the one you always wear when you’re anxious. he has another video from two weeks later, where you don’t wear it. he replays both, side by side. wonders what changed.

he knows you’re throwing a party tonight.

you posted about it two hours ago, tagged someone he doesn’t recognize. he’s already on his way before the story expires. he screenshotted it anyway, just in case.

the train is mostly empty, flickering overhead lights, a low mechanical drone, the soft murmur of strangers behind cracked earbuds. dex doesn’t look at anyone; no one looks at him. he prefers it this way. he sits near the back, hoodie up, one leg jittering faintly with the rhythm of the tracks, the motion sharp, nervous, hungry.

his phone is still in his hand, thumb brushing over the curve of your smile on his screen like it’s fragile, like it might disappear if he presses too hard. you’re wearing the little silver necklace again. the one you always wear. he remembers when you got it. remembers the caption. “felt like treating myself.”

he wonders if you knew how that would make him feel. if you had any idea how that sentence would spiral in his head for weeks.

treating yourself.

as if anyone else should be allowed to.

he closes the story, scrolls down. reads the comments again. a few are harmless. some are not. one stands out. someone calling you baby like they have the right. he’s seen that username before, already looked them up. his grip on the phone tightens.

the train slows, brakes shriek like metal in pain. the lights flicker again, a little too long this time. he doesn’t mind the sound. it covers the noise in his head.

he’s only three stops away now. he could walk it, if he needed to. he already mapped the route, just in case. just in case something like this happened. you getting touched by hands that don’t deserve you. you laughing like that for someone who isn’t him. he can’t have that. not when he’s been so patient.

not when he’s already memorized the way you say hello, how it changes depending on the time of day. not when he’s tracked every shift in your mood, the songs you post at 3 a.m., the spacing in your texts when you’re lonely but pretending not to be. not when he’s so close now.

three stops away. three blocks out. he steps off the train with a precision that doesn’t look like purpose, but is. rain clings to the sidewalk in thin, reflective puddles. city lights warp inside them like oil spills. it’s cold enough to sting, but he doesn’t notice. he’s too busy thinking about you — what you’ll be wearing, how your voice will sound layered over music, laughter, other people’s noise.

he hates that part. the other people part. you shine too easily in crowds.

he tugs his hood tighter. passes lit windows, strangers smoking under awnings, the occasional blur of passing traffic. your building is a few minutes from here. he’s made the walk before. not often. not too often. just enough to understand what kind of locks are on your front door, how long your hallway light stays on, which window belongs to you.

he wonders if you’ve had a drink yet. if your cheeks are flushed. if you’ve smiled at someone the way you used to smile at your camera — soft and a little distant, like the world couldn’t quite reach you.

he checks his phone again. the story is down. your name still sits at the top of his screen like it belongs there. you tagged someone he didn’t know, and that alone was enough to bring him here. he scrolls down again, rereads the comment. the one that didn’t sit right. the one with a nickname you never gave him. it burns a little.

everything does lately.

he crosses the last street, the building is already in view now — faint music spilling from the windows, warm yellow light pooling on the sidewalk. people inside, silhouettes moving, laughing, forgetting themselves. he wonders if you feel different tonight. he wonders if you know you’re being watched.

not by the strangers in the room, not by the guy trying too hard to impress you with a joke he stole off twitter, but by someone who knows you better than they ever could. he pauses just short of the entrance. watches. listens.

the music is too loud, the kind of song people only pretend to like when they’re drunk. someone’s shouting over it, slurring a story no one cares to hear. he lets it all blur. his eyes flicker past the doorway, over unfamiliar faces, a haze of movement. not you. not yet. but he knows you’re here. he steps inside like the house was built for him, like the party was always meant to be watched from behind his eyes. no one looks twice.

he moves slow, slides through the crush of people like smoke, like a shadow with a pulse. a girl bumps into him, her perfume clings for a second too long. he doesn’t react. his hands stay in the pockets of his jacket. his phone, warm against his palm, vibrates once — a notification from the account he uses just to track your likes. he doesn’t need to open it. he knows whatever it is, it’s about you.

the apartment is bigger than it looked from the outside. open floor plan, too many candles, too much fake gold and velvet. he catches fragments of laughter, bits of voices — but none of them belong to you.

he keeps walking. not frantic, never that. he’s patient. he always finds you in the end. you’re here, somewhere. he can feel it in his chest like gravity.

the air inside clings heavy, sweetened with spilled liquor, candle smoke, too many perfumes layered over sweat and skin. everything feels a little slow, like the whole night is being seen through a fogged window. ben moves through the rooms like he’s underwater. his eyes flicker over faces, details.

the chipped black nail polish on a girl’s fingers as she flicks her lighter. a boy leaning too close into someone else’s space. laugh lines deepened by wine. none of it is you.

still, he watches. catalogues.

there’s a mirror on the wall near the hallway. big, gold-framed, antique but fake. he stops in front of it. not to look at himself — he knows what he looks like — but to study the room reflected behind him. you’re not in the mirror, either.

he can hear someone playing with the music in the next room, skipping too fast through a playlist that doesn’t know what it wants to be. bass fades into bedroom pop, then dissolves into silence — someone laughs, and for a split second, he thinks it’s you. his stomach pulls. but it’s not. he knows the shape of your laugh. he knows the way it folds when you’re drunk, the way it curls when you’re trying to hide something.

this one’s too loud. too shallow. not yours.

he moves on.

past bodies slouched across velvet couches, half-finished drinks sweating on coffee tables, a cigarette smoldering in someone’s untouched hand. the party is bleeding at the edges, he can feel it. that late-night looseness, when everything starts to fray and people forget how they’re supposed to behave. how they’re supposed to watch themselves. he wonders if you’ve already started to drift. if your mind is somewhere else. he wonders if anyone else would notice. not like he would, of course.

they don’t know how your eyes get distant when you’re overwhelmed. how your fingers twitch when you want to leave but don’t say it. he’d know. he’d make everyone leave the party for you.

he moves down the hallway now, the one that leads to the kitchen — then the bedrooms, and then the back balcony where you sometimes go when you need air but don’t want to say it out loud. he’s memorized the layout of your apartment down to the way the floorboards creak by the bookshelf. he’s only ever seen parts of it in your photos, your stories, glimpses over your shoulder on video calls. but he knows it. he knows it like it belongs to him.

the kitchen is a mess — half-empty bottles, a bowl of melting ice, three wine glasses with smudged lipstick rings. someone he doesn’t recognize is leaning against your counter like they belong there. they don’t. he stares long enough for them to feel it. long enough for them to shift, unease creeping into their shoulders before they look away.

good.

he likes that they’re uncomfortable.

they should be.

he doesn’t see you here either, but your presence is everywhere. your handwriting on a sticky note near the fridge. your playlist still looping in the background, quiet under the thrum of conversation. your jacket — draped over the arm of the couch in the other room. you were here.

he can feel the ghost of your warmth in the space, like breath in cold air. he takes a slow breath. your house. your party. your people — though none of them matter, not really. you’ve let them in, yes. but he knows you didn’t mean to let everyone in. not like that. they’re all just passing through. just noise. he’s the one who stays. he’s the one who sees everything.

then he hears it. your laugh. it floats in from the living room, warm and real and unmistakable. cut sharp through the hum of chatter and music and clinking glass. like a thread tugged through the air. like fate snapping its fingers. his whole body stills. his eyes close for half a second, just to feel it better. to let it sink in. you’re close. he doesn’t rush toward it, he just moves. like a tide pulling in.

he slips past the doorway, brushing shoulders with someone who doesn’t even register him. doesn’t matter. they never do.

the laugh comes again. closer this time. a little louder, a little messier. you’re not alone. his jaw tightens and he keeps moving.

your voice. your real voice, not filtered through a screen or muffled in headphones. alive. unguarded. glowing at the edges. he follows the sound around the corner, weaving through bodies, until — he sees you. finally.

you’re in the den, low-ceilinged, warm with too many bodies, lights strung haphazardly along the curtain rods like someone tried to make it feel magical and forgot halfway through. someone opened the window a crack and the cold drifts in lazily, mixing with the warmth of too many people, too much perfume, the sharp bite of citrusy liquor poured too generously.

you’re sitting on the edge of the couch, one leg folded underneath you, the other dangling lazily, like you’ve forgotten how beautiful you look just existing. your drink is sweating in your hand. your smile is tilted — soft, glossy, and just a little reckless. you’re laughing. at him.

the boy beside you is leaning in too close, smiling too wide, saying something that makes you tilt your head, your mouth parting like you’re about to say something clever. you touch his arm. ben watches — still, from the doorway.

the rest of the party falls away.

his breath halts in his throat. just for a moment. just long enough to feel it catch, raw and bitter behind his teeth. you’re smiling like you mean it, laughing like this is easy, like you’ve done this before. maybe you have.

he doesn’t move closer yet; he watches. his eyes trace the shape of you — your bare shoulders, the little twist of your mouth when you sip from your drink, the way you tuck your foot under yourself when you're starting to get too comfortable.

he knows what that means. you’re not thinking about leaving.

his hands curl slowly into fists inside his jacket pockets. the guy next to you — he’s talking too much. too confident. too unaware. he doesn’t know that everything about this room has been witnessed. that ben has watched your smile a thousand times and knows the difference between real and polite. between safe and open. between yours and not theirs.

dex has studied this exact angle of your face in grainy videos and bathroom-mirror selfies, he’s memorized the way your smile falters when you start to get tired, the way you hold eye contact for half a second longer when you’re flirting. and this boy — this idiot — is reading it all wrong.

he’s acting like you belong to anyone.

like you’re available to be touched, to be offered drinks, to be read like you haven’t already been written, rewritten, underlined, and claimed in the quiet corners of def’ mind.

he steps into the room quietly, his presence pressing into the space like a shift in weather. he doesn’t look at you right away. doesn’t storm over. no, that would be obvious. that would give too much away. dex knows how to play this game better than anyone.

he lingers near the bookcase. pretends to scan the spines like he's looking for something — maybe a title, maybe a reason to be here that isn’t you— but it’s all for show. he already knows every book you own. alphabetical order, dog-eared corners, broken spines where you reread the same passage over and over. he’s traced them all in your photos, in your videos, in the background of the life you unknowingly broadcast to him.

his jaw tenses when you laugh again. he can’t help it. it bubbles up inside him — something low and burning and dangerous. the guy beside you touches your arm. light, casual. dex sees red.

he moves. not toward you yet, just into orbit. close enough to cast a shadow.

he brushes past a girl holding a half-full drink, and in a motion so precise it almost looks accidental, his shoulder clips her just enough. her arm jolts. vodka cranberry arcs mid-air in a pink-red blur. direct hit. the guy flinches, sputters, curses. his shirt clings to his chest, stained, dripping.

people turn. there’s a murmur. laughter, a few oof’s. a half-hearted apology from the girl, too dazed to question how it happened. the guy’s face flushes. annoyed. embarrassed. he stands up quickly, muttering something about towels.

just like that he’s gone. dex doesn’t look at him, doesn’t have to. he’s already shifting toward you now. eyes soft, smile subtle, hands still in his pockets. harmless.

“that looked messy.” he offers, low enough for only you to hear, voice a perfect calm. as if he didn’t cause it. as if he hadn’t orchestrated it down to the second.

his voice is easy. it should sound casual, but it doesn’t. not to you. not when you turn your head to look at him, eyebrows raised in a mix of surprise and curiosity, and for a brief moment, he sees the way your lips part, your eyes narrowing slightly, like you’re about to ask him if he did that on purpose.

did he?

he swallows. the thought nearly chokes him. but then you laugh — light, effortless, that same soft sound that wraps around him like a ribbon. just like that the world outside of you starts to blur again. your laugh hangs in the air like smoke, curling into his lungs, filling up his chest. it’s everything, and it's nowhere, all at once. the sound of you, the way you look when you’re talking, the way your eyes sparkle when you’re this close, it’s too much.

his heart hammers in his chest. a slow thump. and another. and another. it’s getting louder. faster. pounding like it’s trying to escape.

you’re still talking. he hears the words now, but they’re slipping off the edges of his mind. the way your mouth moves, the softness of your voice — the jealousy tightening around his throat, squeezing, coiling like a snake, suffocating his every breath.

why were you laughing with him?

why was he touching you?

you don’t need him.

you should be looking at me.

im the one who sees you.

his fingers twitch, the barest tremor sliding through his hands, and for a second, he wants to reach out. wants to pull you away. to wrap his hands around your wrist and just drag you into another room where he can lock the door and forget this whole damn night ever happened.

the softness of your gaze, the glint in your eyes, it’s all hazy. it’s blurring. everything around him blurs. his stomach twists. then the silence cuts through. you stop talking. you’re looking at him now.

there’s a sudden sharpness in your gaze, like you’ve noticed something in him that wasn’t there a moment ago. that thought is the one thing that brings him crashing back to the surface. the room is still too loud, the bodies around you, shifting, laughing, lost in their own worlds — none of it matters.

none of it is real. not when you’re looking at him like that.

your voice, still soft and questioning, breaks through the chaos in his head. “hey” you’re a little unsure, a little confused. “are you okay?”

it’s just a question. it’s a simple question. but the way it lands, the way it cuts through the fog in his brain, it’s enough to make him stop. he swallows hard. focuses.

calm down.

calm down.

control yourself.

“yeah — yeah, i’m fine.” he finally speaks, voice light. he rolls his shoulders back like he’s just shaking something off, like the air hasn’t gone razor-sharp behind his ribs. lets out a half-laugh, even adds a slight smirk for effect. “think your friend took the worst of it, honestly.” he nods toward the direction the guy disappeared, all soaked and humiliated. his tone is teasing, like they’re sharing some inside joke. “he okay?”

you blink up at him — eyes glassy, glossy, just a little hazy around the edges. he notices the way your pupils flutter when you try to focus, how your smile pulls wider than it needs to. you’re tipsy. not gone, but warm. soft around the edges.

“he’s fine,” you giggle, waving your drink a little carelessly. “drama queen. probably just didn’t wanna ruin his shoes.” you take a sip like punctuation, the rim of the cup tilting a little too far before you catch it. your fingers are relaxed, loose, the way they get when you’re floating a few drinks in, weightless, like nothing could go wrong.

dex watches you over the edge of his smile. it’s still there — half-curved, practiced, soft enough to look harmless. but his eyes are too steady, too still. “drama queen?” he lets the words roll off his tongue, amused. “gonna start calling him that to his face? or is that a secret between us now?”

you laugh again — louder this time. your head tips back just slightly, and dex watches the curve of your throat with something sharp behind his teeth. “maybe,” you say, grinning. “depends if you’re fun enough to keep around.”

it’s a joke. just a tipsy, casual joke. it hits him like a match dragged across dry skin. “i can be,” he says softly. “but you might find out i’m hard to get rid of.”

your smile twitches like you’re not sure if he’s kidding. you don’t ask, just sip again. someone in the kitchen laughs too loud. someone else trips on the rug and swears under their breath. here, in the den, it feels quieter. smaller. just the two of you — your knee nearly touching his now, your body turned toward him without even thinking about it.

your drink’s almost gone. he notices. “need a refill?” he offers, voice all honeyed charm now. you nod, too quickly, eyes bright. he takes the cup from your hand with a little smirk. “stay right here,” he says. “i’ll be right back.”

he moves through the kitchen with a calm that’s far too deliberate. people brush past him — laughing, shouting, spilling little drops of glittering liquid onto the tile. his fingers tighten slightly around the plastic cup. your cup. he doesn’t need to put anything in it. doesn’t need to force it. you’re already leaning in. already smiling, already tilting toward him like flowers stretch toward sunlight.

you just need one more drink. maybe two. enough to loosen you further, enough to peel back the little walls that sober you wears so politely.

he finds the half-empty bottle you left on the counter — cheap vodka with a citrus twist, already sweating in the warmth of too many bodies. he pours carefully, fills the cup just a little more than he should. adds the mixer — orange soda, too sweet, too fluorescent — and stirs it with the back of a plastic spoon.

his movements are precise, methodical. like he’s done this before. like he’s practiced. someone tries to talk to him, some guy he doesn’t know, doesn’t care to know, asking if he’s new here, if he came with someone. dex smiles. nods. says nothing. he’s already turning away before the guy finishes his sentence. you’re waiting.

when he steps back into the den you’re still there. sitting curled into the couch, legs tucked beneath you, drinkless and a little flushed. you glance up when you see him, and your smile stretches across your face like the lights strung behind you.

he holds out the cup like a peace offering. “as requested,” he smirks. “one dangerously unmeasured refill.” you take it from him without hesitation, fingers brushing his, no suspicion in your eyes.

“you trying to get me drunk?” you tease, raising an eyebrow as you take a sip. your voice is lighter now, playful. but you don’t stop drinking.

dex lets out a short laugh. “just trying to be fun enough for you, right?” you hum around the rim of the cup, then sip again, deeper this time. the buzz in your bloodstream is louder now. he can see it. the way your posture softens, the way your eyes linger longer on his mouth when he speaks. “so,” he says, voice low, conversational. “you throw parties like this often? or just when your friends need somewhere to spill drinks and ruin their shoes?”

you laugh again. you’re doing that more around him now. he files that away. your drink swirls lazily in your hand. “not really,” you admit, tilting your head, letting it rest against the back of the couch. “i’m not really... a party girl or whatever.” you make a vague gesture toward the crowd, nose wrinkling just slightly. “this isn’t really my scene. i’m just—” you pause, then smile, a little crooked.“my friend’s going through it. breakup. needed noise and a reason to wear too much eyeliner.”

dex already knew that.

of course he did. he saw the post two days ago— a bathroom mirror pic with your friend pouting and a caption like he didn’t deserve me anyway. he’d clocked the timeline, the comments, the playlist you posted that same night — sad girl summer with three ironic heart emojis.

but hearing you say it? hearing it in your voice, seeing the soft little twitch of sympathy on your face, the way you care for people who don’t even notice how tired you look when you host for their sake — it makes his jaw tighten behind the curve of his smile. that’s nice of you,” he leans in just slightly. “throwing a whole party for someone else. not a lot of people would do that.”

you shrug, sipping again, eyes flicking down to your lap. “i don’t mind. i like making people feel okay.” then, after a pause: “i guess i like when things are light, even if it’s not really for me.”

that hits him harder than he expects. he watches you fiddle with the edge of your cup. you don’t realize how much you’ve already said. how much you’ve given away. “people ever do that for you?” he asks. it’s casual, tossed out like small talk, but it lands heavy.

you blink. surprised, maybe. then smile again, but this one’s thinner. “not really,” you say after a second. “but it’s fine. i don’t really need that kind of thing.”

he hums. doesn’t say anything right away. lets the moment breathe. because this is the part he’s been waiting for. — when your voice goes softer. when your walls start to dip, just slightly, when the noise of the party becomes background and you forget, for just a moment, that you barely know him.

“well,” he responds, voice smooth now, low and certain, “you deserve that kind of thing.” his eyes stay locked on yours. no smile now — just honesty, or something that feels close to it. “someone should look out for you the way you look out for everyone else.”

you blink slowly at him, eyes a little heavy now, the edges of your thoughts all syrupy-sweet. his words settle into you like warmth, like something you didn’t know you were cold without. the way he’s looking at you — it’s not like the others.

“you’re tall,” you murmur, not quite accusing, but enough to wrinkle your nose a little. you lean your head further back against the couch to keep him in your line of sight. “it’s annoying. my neck’s gonna lock up.” he huffs a laugh, and there’s something else in it — something softer. something dangerous. he watches you blink at him, lazy and flushed, lips curved with amusement. “maybe you should sit down.” you add, your voice slipping into something half-teasing. you pat the empty spot beside you with a kind of innocent finality, like you’re making a perfectly reasonable request and not handing him exactly what he wants. “i’m not gonna yell across the room just to flirt with you.”

dex moves before the words fully register. controlled, like he’s done this a hundred times in a hundred different dreams. he sinks into the couch next to you — slow enough to seem effortless, close enough that your shoulders nearly brush. the cushion shifts beneath his weight. your drink wobbles a little in your hand, but you don’t move. he can smell your perfume from here now. soft and a little worn-in, like you sprayed it hours ago but it clung to your skin anyway.

“flirting?” he repeats, tilting his head just slightly toward you. his voice is still soft, still careful, but it’s edged now — sharp in a way that makes your skin prickle. “is that what this is?”

you shrug, sipping again, but your mouth twitches with a smile. “maybe. depends on if you’re good at it.” you’re drunk enough to say it without thinking. and maybe brave enough to mean it.

dex watches your lips wrap around the rim of the cup. he doesn’t blink. “i guess you’ll have to let me know.” he says. his knee bumps yours intentionally. then, after a beat — light, offhanded, but not really: “what about your friend?” he glances toward the hallway, toward the space the guy disappeared into earlier, soaked and sulking.

you snort. “him?” you wave a hand, dismissive. a little sloppier now. “he’s not my friend friend. he’s just someone who flirts like it’s his job.” you laugh again, that lazy tipsy sound, and lean a little closer, elbow brushing ben’s. “he always tries it when he’s drunk. it’s harmless.”

harmless.

the word sticks.

dex swallows the taste of it like something sour. harmless. like a mosquito. like background noise. like someone you don’t really see. he forces a smile. nods slowly. “mm,” he hums, “looked like more than harmless from where i was standing.”

you raise an eyebrow, amused. “jealous?”

you mean it like a joke. but dex just looks at you, gaze steady, unreadable for a second too long.

“should i be?”

he watches you process them in real time, your lips parting like a response was about to come out but stalled somewhere behind your teeth. you shift in your seat. not away from him — toward.

your knee presses into his now, not accidental this time. your body leans just slightly closer, like gravity’s tugging you into the shape of the moment. “i mean…” you blink, a slow flutter like you’re thinking it through. you smile, a little sideways. “only if you were trying to flirt with me first.” it’s teasing. but your voice is lower now, breathier.

dex feels it under his skin, feels it in that locked place behind his ribs where every part of him has been coiled since the second he saw you tonight. he hums. his eyes drag over your face. your lashes. your cheek flushed from the alcohol. “and if i was?”

it’s not really a question. it’s a challenge. a confession folded in silk. you breathe a laugh like it’s just for him.

your fingers twist the rim of your cup absently, but you don’t look away. “then maybe you’re doing okay,” you praise, eyes warm, a little hazy, “for a guy who showed up at my house with no name and suspiciously good timing.”

he lets the smile pull slow across his lips. not wide. not safe.

“dex.” he says, like it’s nothing. like it’s the most normal thing in the world. his voice dips with it, like the name itself carries weight. “and i don’t believe in accidents.”

you blink again. you laugh, but it's nervous now — barely there. and god, it’s pretty.

he leans back just slightly, but his gaze never breaks from yours. his hand rests on the couch between you — close. almost touching. you don’t move.

“your turn.” he says.

and you have no idea that he’s been waiting for it to finally be his.

started 4.25.2025. finished 4.25.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[crabsnpersimmons]

here's your daily reminder to

✨get some rest✨

[Video ID: An animation of Moon from Five Nights at Freddy's sleeping in bed. The background is a simple blue background with a starry pattern and a spotlight over Moon's bed. The bed is animated in time with Moon's breathing, and the stars in the background rotate back and forth. Above Moon is the caption: "get some rest"]

static version under the cut

[baigepueckers]

Caitlin Clark X Reader

Out of Frame Part 3

The morning creeps in soft and gray. Rain patters against Caitlin’s apartment window like it’s trying to lull her back to sleep, but it’s too late for that. She’s already up, already sitting on the edge of her bed with her phone in her hands staring at a blank screen and pretending she isn’t waiting for your name to light it up.

It doesn’t.

She scrolls through your old messages instead. Most are work related…shoot schedules, post approvals, quick jokes about captions or emoji choices…but there are a few that linger. Ones where you sent her photos just because the lighting hit her right. A few where she made you laugh so hard you forgot to hit send on the final edit. One where you told her she looked calm. She had stared at that one for a few minutes.

Calm.

She doesn’t feel calm now.

Practice is still hours away, but she heads in early…hoping muscle memory will drown the static in her head. The gym lights are dimmed when she gets there, the air still cool and untouched. She dribbles alone for a while, letting the sound echo, until it becomes rhythm instead of noise.

She almost misses you.

You’re sitting cross legged on the floor near the sideline, camera in your lap, scrolling through preview frames. You’re wearing that oversized crewneck you always throw on when you’re editing…navy blue, sleeves baggy on your arms, thumb absently toying the drawstring as you hum under your breath.

She freezes mid dribble.

You haven’t seen her yet. And for a second, she’s tempted to leave. Pretend she wasn’t here first. Pretend she didn’t spend last night writing and deleting a confession she still doesn’t have the guts to say aloud.

But then your name slips from her mouth.

You glance up immediately, that warm look spreading across your face before your eyes fully focus on her.

“Didn’t think anyone else would be here yet” you say, your voice still rough from the early hour. “You okay?”

Her pulse stutters.

She drops her shoulders and nods. “Yeah. Just needed to shoot. Clear my head.”

You pat the floor beside you like it’s reserved. “Stay a bit. You’ve got time.”

She doesn’t even hesitate.

The ball rolls to a stop near your feet. You pick it up, spinning it idly between your palms like you’ve done it a thousand times. Your fingers brush the seams with a kind of familiarity that makes her chest ache.

“I’ve been going through some B roll,” you murmur. “I think I caught one of your assists from yesterday in a perfect tracking shot.”

“You didn’t even look at me yesterday” Caitlin says before she can stop herself.

The words come out softer than she intended…half hurt, half sarcastic, fully vulnerable.

You blink.

“I…what?”

She tries to shrug, but it lands wrong…stiff and too casual. “You were busy with the new guy. I didn’t think you saw.”

You frown, setting the ball down carefully.

“Caitlin…”

She doesn’t let you say anything else. The words inside her are too close to the surface now, pulsing with every beat of her heart.

“I hate that he made you laugh.”

Silence.

It drops between you like a pin in an empty room.

You straighten, eyes searching hers. “What?”

“I saw you two. You were laughing. Smiling. Standing close.”

Your brows draw together, confusion laced with something else. “He was asking about shutter speed.”

“You touched his wrist.”

“I was adjusting the lens….”

“You’ve never done that for me,” she says quietly.

Your mouth opens, then closes. She watches you cycle through thoughts you’re not sure how to voice.

She knows she’s not making sense. Or maybe she’s making too much sense. Either way, she can’t stop.

“I just….” she runs a hand through her hair, voice cracking. “I know it’s dumb. I know we’re just… this. But I liked thinking maybe it was more. Even if you didn’t know it.”

She finally looks at you. And it nearly guts her.

Because you don’t look mad. You don’t even look confused anymore. You look gentle. Guarded, but soft.

“Caitlin” you say again, slower this time. “Why would it matter if I laughed at him?”

Her breath catches.

She wants to tell you everything…that you’re all she thinks about, that your smile is the only thing keeping her anchored most days. That she’s rewritten every interaction with you a hundred different ways in her head just to see how they might end.

Instead, she says, “Because I want to be the one who makes you laugh like that.”

You go quiet.

She sees your throat bob as you swallow, something unreadable flashing in your eyes.

And for a second, she thinks maybe she’s ruined everything.

Then.

“I didn’t laugh at him” you murmur.

Her brows pull together.

“Not really,” you continue. “I was being polite. I thought you were ignoring me. You didn’t even say hi at shootaround.”

Caitlin looks away, shame flooding her chest. “I couldn’t. I was… I didn’t trust myself to sound normal.”

You shift closer. Just barely. Your knees touch.

“I always notice you,” you say softly. “Even when I shouldn’t.”

She lifts her gaze again.

Your smile is small. Real.

“Maybe we’re both terrible at saying things,” you add.

Something tight in her chest loosens, just enough for air.

She laughs, breathless. “We should probably work on that.”

You bump her knee. “Probably.”

Neither of you moves. The silence between you now is warmer, not thick with tension, but pulsing with something else.

Promise.

Still unspoken. Still fragile.

But real.