#was for a data science final project

[reasonsforhope]

If you're feeling anxious or depressed about the climate and want to do something to help right now, from your bed, for free...

Start helping with citizen science projects

What's a citizen science project? Basically, it's crowdsourced science. In this case, crowdsourced climate science, that you can help with!

You don't need qualifications or any training besides the slideshow at the start of a project. There are a lot of things that humans can do way better than machines can, even with only minimal training, that are vital to science - especially digitizing records and building searchable databases

Like labeling trees in aerial photos so that scientists have better datasets to use for restoration.

Or counting cells in fossilized plants to track the impacts of climate change.

Or digitizing old atmospheric data to help scientists track the warming effects of El Niño.

Or counting penguins to help scientists better protect them.

Those are all on one of the most prominent citizen science platforms, called Zooniverse, but there are a ton of others, too.

Oh, and btw, you don't have to worry about messing up, because several people see each image. Studies show that if you pool the opinions of however many regular people (different by field), it matches the accuracy rate of a trained scientist in the field.

--

I spent a lot of time doing this when I was really badly injured and housebound, and it was so good for me to be able to HELP and DO SOMETHING, even when I was in too much pain to leave my bed. So if you are chronically ill/disabled/for whatever reason can't participate or volunteer for things in person, I highly highly recommend.

Next time you wish you could do something - anything - to help

Remember that actually, you can. And help with some science.

[silvergreenseraphim]

Hmm, I am looking through endless Ultimania translations to find a bit of information on a Crisis Core scene that will help me finish a post but as usual I became distracted.

(From the Crisis Core guide).

I was thinking about this fusion pod that Hojo lets Zack enter. Hojo can also apparently use it to physically enhance subjects?

Somehow Zack is infused to become stronger and then….

Hmmm.

Too much enhancement leads to degradation for SOLDIERs.

Alas, they all have their limits.

Well. Except one…

“You do not have the ability to copy unto others. Your DNA cannot be spread. Thus your body cannot deteriorate.”

Sephiroth’s cells have no limitations. How proud Hojo must have been, to discover that his first-rate science experiment, could not degrade or reach the limit of his cells.

He could enhance Sephiroth endlessly, making him stronger and stronger. Always superior to Hollander’s experiments. Never reaching a limit to what Project S could endure.

There was no threshold, was there?

[jennaflare]

i really thought the society & sustainability class would be my fave this quarter but NAY. map city baby.

[ultrakey]

Trending Final Year Projects for 2025

Choose from the latest and most in-demand project topics across engineering and technology domains.

[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.

[technology-123s-blog]

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[jpinfotechprojects]

https://jpinfotech.org/python-ieee-projects/

[babyleostuff]

spreadsheet

𝜗𝜚 THEME: fluff, established relationship 𝜗𝜚 PAIRING: (architect)student!mingyu x fem!reader 𝜗𝜚 WORD COUNT: 980

SYNOPSIS: if there's one thing mingyu finds incredibly sexy, it's intelligence

“i give up.” 

that was honestly the last thing you’d ever expect to hear from your boyfriend. kim mingyu never gave up, and even if - it wasn’t everyday that his ego allowed him to admit to failure.

confused, you looked up from your computer to see what finally managed to defeat him, just to be met with a very pouty, and a very annoyed boyfriend looking at the screen of his own computer, like he had some personal vendetta against it. 

you quickly covered your mouth with your hand to hide the smile forming on your face. you didn’t need mingyu to think you were making fun of him. “weren’t you supposed to work on your exam project?” you asked, doing your best not to burst out laughing. there was just something about that hunk of a six foot two man with killer biceps who was sitting opposite you, and pouting like a five year old that made you cackle. 

“yes, but i have to use a spreadsheet or whatever to sort out some of the information, and,” he sighed, “i have no idea how to use it.” 

with a loud bang, mingyu’s forehead met the table, which would definitely leave a small bump he’d make you kiss better later. huh, so he really gave up. 

“i don’t think i understand,” you crooked your head at him, pushing yours and his computers away, so you could lean over and place your hand at the nape of his neck. “kim mingyu, one of the best future architects, doesn't know how to use a spreadsheet?” your boyfriend was smart smart, there was no way he didn’t know a couple of formulas to sort out the data.

mingyu groaned loudly, and shook your hand off his neck. “don’t make fun of me baby,” with a whine, he lifted up his head, revealing big shiny puppy eyes, which were practically begging for your help. “as you said, i’m an architect, not a computer science guy!” he exclaimed, his lips turning more and more pouty with each word. 

for a person that loved to make fun of coups and his pout, it didn’t seem like mingyu realised how big of a pouty baby he was himself. 

“i don’t think you need to study computer science to know how to use a spreadsheet, gyu,” you said, and ran your thumb over his jutted out lip. “besides, you study maths and physics, shouldn’t you know how to use this kind of stuff?” 

“if this is your way of making me feel better it’s not working,” mingyu huffed, grabbing your hand in his. “and i really need to figure this out, but i have no idea how. i tried watching tutorials, but i still don’t get it. like, the more i try to understand it the less sense it actually makes,” his breath ghosted your knuckles, as his lips moved against your fingers.  “please tell me you’re an undercover tech guru, so you can do this for me. ” 

you gave mingyu’s hand a little squeeze, and took his computer with your free hand, sliding it over to your side of the table. 

“what are you doing?” he asked, confusion lacing his voice. 

you shook your head in amusement, and squeezed his hand once again, as you transferred all of the necessary data into a new, empty spreadsheet. “i may not be a tech guru as you called it, but it’s a good thing you have a super smart girlfriend,” you murmured, focused on the screen, “that knows the basics of how to use a spreadsheet.” 

you didn't have to look at mingyu to know that his eyes were wide and his mouth open in bewilderment - but it wasn't your fault - it's not like you ever had the opportunity to show off your skills before. besides, mingyu was so in love with you and he was so down bad that you didn't have to do anything special to make him look at you like you just invented a new element.

“it’s really not that hard, you just have to,” the quiet noise of you typing filled your living room for a moment, “you have to know which formals to use.” 

mingyu couldn’t tear his eyes off you. how in the world did he manage to bag a girl that was not only insanely beautiful, but also smart as hell? though he couldn’t see what exactly you were doing (not that he cared about that, he wouldn’t understand any of it anyway), mingyu was sure you were doing magic with those damn spreadsheets. 

“here,” you said with a proud smile a short while later, “is this what you were meant to do?” you turned the computer around for him to see the, yes - perfectly sorted data, just like his professor wanted them to be. 

“you are so fucking hot.” 

mingyu couldn’t help himself. he loved acting like he was the smartest in the room, but holy shit - his girlfriend was a genius, and he’d act all dumb just to have her fill out his spreadsheets. 

“you are literally the most amazing thing ever, baby,” mingyu breathed, still looking at you with disbelief. “so so smart, and so so mine.” 

you snickered, and threw a rolled up napkin at him. “calm down, gyu. that was nothing, seriously.” 

“nothing?!” he exclaimed, offended. “nothing, you say? so why was i struggling with it for the past hours?” 

“if you paid more attention in class i’m sure you’d manage perfectly on your own,” you said, suddenly shy under his stare. the lovesick look was truly overwhelming. “now, will i get something in return?” 

mingyu's expression suddenly seemed to change from pure surprise and admiration to something that pretty much resembled smugness. “what do you have in mind, princess?” he asked, crooking his head at you. 

you smiled and pointed your finger at your lips.

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[rosyblooom]

could you please do lando and a stem girl who goes to uni but has a private life please

they don't know about us | ln4 smau

pairing: lando norris x private fem computer science major!reader a/n: this took me forever but hope u still like :) also, if you've got requests could u add if you want it to be smau or fic pls <3

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[ caption: Mind you, I just woke up... ]

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[ caption 1: 🕒✈️ ] [ caption 2: miami 👋 ]

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[ caption 1: shoutout to the inventor of coffee i owe u big time🙏 ] [ caption 2: uhm i was just going to rest my eyes for 2 minutes?? good morning i guess💀 ]

f1gossip

liked by username, username, username and 12,057 others

f1gossip Y/N L/N, current girlfriend of Lando Norris, has been photographed arriving at the paddock for today's Miami GP.

Y/N's presence comes as a bit of a surprise, considering she was absent during practice and qualifying sessions, and rarely attends races. Speculation about a potential breakup has been rampant, but her appearance suggests that there might not be trouble in paradise after all... 👀

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username she always looks so classy and put-together, i'm obsessed <33

username no bc am i the only who has no problem with her only attending a few races a year? some ppl don't have time to jet off across the globe 24/7 like

username it's the fact that they literally travelled to miami together and she still didn't go to quali or practice😐 the other wags do it, why can't she?

username i just know lando had to beg her to come smh

username why are y'all so rude omg?? some ppl are introverts...

username when you're in the public eye, you don't get to be "introverted"🙃 username that's an insane take wtf?

username GUYS i think she's a uni student cause peep lando's story a few days ago🧐 that explains why she's never at gps

username so? i'm a senior and i went to the aus gp this year username okay... do you want a cookie ?

username if a wag is at all races she's fame-hungry, and if she doesn't she's unsupportive like make up y'all's minds pls 🙄

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[ caption: YOU DID IT!!! HE DID IT!!! MY BABY IS AN F1 WINNER OMFGGG🥹🥳👏 you deserved this so so much, i'm sooo proud of you ❤️❤️❤️ ]

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landonorris

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landonorris Memories for life ❤️

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username LANDO NOW WINS IKTRRRRR‼️🤩

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lewishamilton 👏👏👏

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riabish sooo happy!!!

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username yessirrrr

yourusername posted to her story!

[ caption 1: back to reality 💔 ] [ caption 2: jkjk it's not that bad, i don't cry nearly as much as i did in first year 🙂‍↕️☝️ ]

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harvard

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harvard Final projects, theses, dissertations, and more! Check out what these soon-to-be graduates explored in some of their last assignements on campus.

Y/N's thesis navigated the intricate relationship between privacy and secure multi-party computation, enhancing data analysis while safeguarding sensitive information.

2. Steve's environmental science project examined urban development's impact on local biodiversity, providing insights for sustainable urban planning.

3. Nya's dentistry research poster explored new methods to improve dental implant success, promising better patient outcomes and oral healthcare.

—

We are celebrating the extraordinary members of the Class of #Harvard24 🎓

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username 👏👏👏

username Awesome!

username Very good! Congrats to all these students!!💪

username wait am i tripping or is this y/n as in lando's gf y/n???😳 btw my biggest dream is to go to harvard in '26 !!!! 💕

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username streets are saying y/n goes to harvard so i had to come check and omg??😩

username no bc wag AND harvard girly?? just looked at myself and sighed fr... username now i feel bad for talking shit🫤

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[ caption 1: pulling an all-nighterrrr 😁 ] [ caption 2: nevermind, lando just made me promise to get some sleep :( ]

A few months later...

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[ caption 1: couldn't ask for better shoulders to cry on srsly 🙂‍↕️ WE DID IT MY LOVESSS 🎓❤️❤️ ] [ caption 2: this us? 😏 (corny, i know...) ]

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username a win for women iktr 😌

username wow i'm so happy for her omg 🫶🫶 (jealous too but mostly happy loolol)

username LMAO are we the same person?

carlossainz55 👏👏👏

username now she has no excuse anymore

username if lando's completely happy with it all, why the hell are u upset? 🤡

username 2024 really gave us lando's first ever win and now this?? we love to see it 😍

yourusername ❤️❤️

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username we love you y/n <333 username i hope you'll be able to attend more races from now on!! i love seeing you in the paddock 💕

username the way i still haven't fully processed the fact that harvard gave her a shoutout goddamn🤯

usernmae not you calling that a shoutout bye💀💀

username AAHHHH YAYY CONGRATS Y/N YOU'RE DOING AMAZING SWEETIE 🤍🤍🤍🤍

0:33 ───ㅇ───────── 2:40

[nasa]

LaRue Burbank, mathematician and computer, is just one of the many women who were instrumental to NASA missions.

4 Little Known Women Who Made Huge Contributions to NASA

Women have always played a significant role at NASA and its predecessor NACA, although for much of the agency’s history, they received neither the praise nor recognition that their contributions deserved. To celebrate Women’s History Month – and properly highlight some of the little-known women-led accomplishments of NASA’s early history – our archivists gathered the stories of four women whose work was critical to NASA’s success and paved the way for future generations.

LaRue Burbank: One of the Women Who Helped Land a Man on the Moon

LaRue Burbank was a trailblazing mathematician at NASA. Hired in 1954 at Langley Memorial Aeronautical Laboratory (now NASA’s Langley Research Center), she, like many other young women at NACA, the predecessor to NASA, had a bachelor's degree in mathematics. But unlike most, she also had a physics degree. For the next four years, she worked as a "human computer," conducting complex data analyses for engineers using calculators, slide rules, and other instruments. After NASA's founding, she continued this vital work for Project Mercury.

In 1962, she transferred to the newly established Manned Spacecraft Center (now NASA’s Johnson Space Center) in Houston, becoming one of the few female professionals and managers there.  Her expertise in electronics engineering led her to develop critical display systems used by flight controllers in Mission Control to monitor spacecraft during missions. Her work on the Apollo missions was vital to achieving President Kennedy's goal of landing a man on the Moon.

Eilene Galloway: How NASA became… NASA

Eilene Galloway wasn't a NASA employee, but she played a huge role in its very creation. In 1957, after the Soviet Union launched Sputnik, Senator Richard Russell Jr. called on Galloway, an expert on the Atomic Energy Act, to write a report on the U.S. response to the space race. Initially, legislators aimed to essentially re-write the Atomic Energy Act to handle the U.S. space goals. However, Galloway argued that the existing military framework wouldn't suffice – a new agency was needed to oversee both military and civilian aspects of space exploration. This included not just defense, but also meteorology, communications, and international cooperation.

Her work on the National Aeronautics and Space Act ensured NASA had the power to accomplish all these goals, without limitations from the Department of Defense or restrictions on international agreements. Galloway is even to thank for the name "National Aeronautics and Space Administration", as initially NASA was to be called “National Aeronautics and Space Agency” which was deemed to not carry enough weight and status for the wide-ranging role that NASA was to fill.

Barbara Scott: The “Star Trek Nerd” Who Led Our Understanding of the Stars

A self-described "Star Trek nerd," Barbara Scott's passion for space wasn't steered toward engineering by her guidance counselor. But that didn't stop her!  Fueled by her love of math and computer science, she landed at Goddard Spaceflight Center in 1977.  One of the first women working on flight software, Barbara's coding skills became instrumental on missions like the International Ultraviolet Explorer (IUE) and the Thermal Canister Experiment on the Space Shuttle's STS-3.  For the final decade of her impressive career, Scott managed the flight software for the iconic Hubble Space Telescope, a testament to her dedication to space exploration.

Dr. Claire Parkinson: An Early Pioneer in Climate Science Whose Work is Still Saving Lives

Dr. Claire Parkinson's love of math blossomed into a passion for climate science. Inspired by the Moon landing, and the fight for civil rights, she pursued a graduate degree in climatology.  In 1978, her talents landed her at Goddard, where she continued her research on sea ice modeling. But Parkinson's impact goes beyond theory.  She began analyzing satellite data, leading to a groundbreaking discovery: a decline in Arctic sea ice coverage between 1973 and 1987. This critical finding caught the attention of Senator Al Gore, highlighting the urgency of climate change.

Parkinson's leadership extended beyond research.  As Project Scientist for the Aqua satellite, she championed making its data freely available. This real-time information has benefitted countless projects, from wildfire management to weather forecasting, even aiding in monitoring the COVID-19 pandemic. Parkinson's dedication to understanding sea ice patterns and the impact of climate change continues to be a valuable resource for our planet.

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space! 

[blood-orange-juice]

I swear, Dottore was written by a former STEM graduate. People don't normally write mad scientists this way.

Whenever I try to dig into deep lore, his research repeatedly turns out to be among the most useful data I have.

I know a good project when I see one. I've been on both sides of the academic hiring process, I've written grant proposals and I've reviewed them and I've seen better scientists than me discuss them, so please understand how much weight I put into this: these are very good projects.

(except for, you know, ethics)

His research topics seem random but he actually pokes at the most fundamental questions of Teyvat with each one.

His Eleazar studies dig at the relationship between forbidden knowledge and dead gods (surprise: these are different things. I might have lumped them together if not for his notes).

Cloning himself pokes at the difference between machine and man, and also it's the technology of Eclipse Dynasty, Teyvat's main historical enigma. Have you ever wondered whether all ruin guards were men once? Or why did Khaenri'ahns switch from alchemy to ruin machines so abruptly? Or why they were cursed.

(I have a suspicion it also pokes at the nature of time and stories, the way he talks about a need for an ideal observer, and also the way Khaenri'ahn history went)

Delusions answer the question of why does Teyvat need Archons for Visions to appear and for humans to be able to use elemental magic. We don't know the answer but Dottore does.

I'm eyeing his artificial god because I don't think that what we saw in Sumeru was the final project. He seemed so nonchalant when it failed.

This is theoretical science at its finest. As a cherry on top, every project also yields practically applicable results.

He's a dream of every grant commitee.

[the-most-humble-blog]

You Are Being Haunted — and Science Can’t Save You.

You are being haunted. And you don’t even know it.

Not by ghosts. Not by demons. But by something far worse.

Something that follows you. From inside you. From before you were conscious — and long after you think you’re dead.

I. What Follows You Without Footsteps?

In quantum physics, there’s a term:

Superposition — the idea that particles can exist in multiple states at once, until observed.

Observation collapses the wave. But what collapses you?

Answer: Your shadow.

You think it’s a trick of the light. But in quantum terms, it’s something else:

A probability field. A projection. A permanently entangled copy of your presence in spacetime.

Not metaphor. Not poetry. Physics.

II. It Comes Back. Every Time.

You can try to change.

Move cities.

Get therapy.

Shave your head and call it rebirth.

But the shadow doesn’t care.

Because the shadow isn't a symptom. It’s a recording.

A data echo of everything you’ve been. And everything you're capable of being again.

If you’ve ever tried to escape yourself — Only to circle back into old habits, old wounds, old lusts — That wasn’t weakness. It was recursion.

And recursion is physics. Not failure.

III. Quantum Haunting Is Real. Here's the Data.

Not allegory.

Literal evidence exists.

Hiroshima, 1945.

When the atomic bomb dropped, thousands vaporized in microseconds. But their shadows did not.

人影の石 (Hitokage no Ishi) — The Human Shadow Etched in Stone.

A woman sitting near the Sumitomo Bank. Vaporized by thermal radiation.

But the stone steps behind her were bleached — except where her body shielded them.

Her final shape. Frozen into reality. A dark imprint of her last moment of life.

They call it: The Human Shadow of Death. The Blast Shadow.

But let’s be precise:

It wasn’t just a stain. It was a recording. Of presence. Of heat. Of witness.

And here’s what’s worse:

You’re leaving them, too. Right now.

IV. What Science Still Won’t Admit

There is no unified theory explaining consciousness.

We can split atoms. We can map genomes. But we can’t explain:

Why you dream of your ex.

Why trauma shows up as smell.

Why some memories scream without sound.

Why the past lives in your body.

There is no consensus on how the mind locates itself inside the body.

But evidence suggests:

There’s something watching you from within the field of you. Something that records every shame, lust, betrayal, fear — not emotionally, but energetically.

Your trauma? Not stored in the body. Encoded.

In the wavelength of your biofield. In the negative space of your choices. In your shadow print.

V. The Observer Effect (and Why You’re Fucked)

Quantum mechanics says:

Observation changes the outcome.

If that’s true…

What happens when you observe yourself?

Guilt. Self-hatred. Shame. Depression.

Those aren’t emotions. They’re echoes. They're your own wave function collapsing on itself.

And the more aware you become of who you’ve been — The darker the shadow that stands behind you.

VI. No One Escapes. Not Even The Enlightened.

Go meditate. Go fast. Go run barefoot through forests chanting mantras.

It won’t matter.

Even monks report psychological possession during shadow integration.

Carl Jung, the man who coined the term “the shadow self,” wrote:

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life — and you will call it fate.”

But Jung didn’t know quantum field theory.

If he did, he would’ve known:

You’re not just fighting patterns. You’re resisting a mirrored field embedded into the architecture of time.

And here's the kicker: You destroy it — you destroy yourself.

VII. The Human Shadow is Not Just Metaphor — It's Mechanism

Remember Hiroshima.

The shadow was left behind. Because the body absorbed the light.

That’s not poetic. That’s radiological fact.

Let me rephrase it for clarity:

The body was erased. The shadow stayed.

And still we ask:

Is the soul what survives death?

What if it’s not the soul?

What if it’s the shadow?

What if what stays behind isn’t divine — but undeniable?

What if you die… And what remains is everything you couldn’t face?

VIII. Ladies and Gentlemen, Meet Your Quantum Stalker

You call it:

Guilt

Anxiety

The past

A bad habit

But science has a term for it too:

Quantum entanglement.

The particles that make you… you Are never alone.

And if they once interacted with trauma? They are forever linked to the energy of that event.

Even when you leave the place. Even when the person dies. Even when you heal.

The field doesn’t forget.

And neither does your shadow.

IX. Why You Should Be Scared

Christopher Nolan's Oppenheimer told the story of the bomb.

But not the blast shadows.

Hollywood won't show you the real horror:

People permanently burned into stone — by light.

That’s not science fiction. That’s what’s left when energy remembers.

And energy always remembers.

You? You think you’re safe.

But the field has you documented.

Every word. Every orgasm. Every betrayal.

There is no deleting your shadow.

X. Final Revelation

You're haunted.

By what you've done. By what you've denied. By the part of you that watched you sin — and never blinked.

This is not metaphor. This is physics.

You are not being followed. You are being mirrored.

And the only way to kill your shadow?

Is to never cast one again. But to stop casting one…

You must destroy all light.

Including yourself.

And so it comes back.

Every time.

🧠 Call to Action

You are being watched. By a part of you that remembers what you’d rather forget.

Reblog if the idea of your own shadow now makes your skin crawl. Reblog if the physics of guilt suddenly makes sense. Reblog because maybe you’re haunted too — and you didn’t even know it.

⚠️ LEGAL DISCLAIMER:

This post is psychological horror, quantum theory satire, trauma field exploration, and sociocultural commentary. It is protected under the laws of literature, symbolic science, and emotionally accurate terror. If you’re uncomfortable, that’s your shadow blinking back.

[typewritingyip]

Arcturus Three

Part One - Introductions

———

In 1975, nine years before the Quintesson invasion, it was the waning years of the space race between the United States and the USSR. Not long after the end of the Vietnam war came the Apollo-Soyuz Test Project, where both major space programs attempted to dock together for the first time. After it’s success came further joint missions and projects to be had in what was dubbed space stations. 

It wouldn’t be until after the end of the Cold War and war against the Quintisons had started that the then American Vice-President and Russian Prime Ministers would make plans for a new space station after the previous failed attempts, this would come to be known as the International Space Station. 

The ISS sits in a low Earth orbit, intending to be a laboratory, observatory and factory along with roles that were added in 2010. 

It’s initial intentions would be adjusted to fill the need of the different mech based organizations on Earth attempting to retrieve data from the alien invaders, to decipher where they were coming from or at the very least what they are. These attempts have so far been limited in success. 

Six mecha pilots have attempted to follow the stream of data received by the ISS from the unknown invaders to potentially end this decades long conflict. All six pilots have lost contact with Earth. Another ten pilots are scheduled to follow the same data in the next five years. 

Pilot(s): 3141, 6986, 17741 for Arcturus Three, plus medical officer RH.

Pilot(s): 12437 for Arcturus Four, solo mission.

Pilot(s): 555, 1060, 4341, 17740, and 3113 in suit eleven for Arturus Five, the last projected mission.

—

Two Years Post Arcturus One - One Year Post Arcturus Two

The pilots were sitting backstage, leaning around a small table talking quietly, “I mean, there has to be something they aren’t telling us.” Sitting back, the pilot lightly scratches at his implants, it was a habit most pilots who’d nearly faced rejection picked up after a while, “I mean no offense, but I thought we were all told that our seniority would be the judge of these missions.” Nodding some, another one of the pilots sighs, “We were initially told that, yes, but certain things must be accounted for.” The other pilot threw his hands up lightly.

They all were staring at each other, they couldn’t help it, “Alright, I’m not the only one who thinks it’s weird that this mission has me, one of the designers of our suits, the best female pilot on the planet, and supposedly a medical officer.” He kicked his feet up on the table, sending the tablets and papers on it flying.

He winced, “Uh, sorry, but seriously. This can’t be a normal mission, not like Arcturus one or two. I still don’t think we know all the details for those either.” Finally, one of the other pilots leaned forward, “No one is making you do this Roddy.” The other pilot grins before shrugging slightly, “Think of this as an adventure.” Then another pilot then spoke up as well, “A mission where it is likely you’ll be able to catch fire as often as you desire.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“Now that sounds like fun.” ‘Roddy’ had a killer smile and was unafraid to display it. 

—

The media room was packed with reporters, as it always was for any mecha announcement but another packed room because it was combined with a NASA announcement. As per-usual, Swindle was wearing his overly charming smile while some government schmuck was talking the ears off the reporters. 

It was almost easy to zone out, to remember the past and how the fight felt in those earlier years that these government geeks loved to reminisce on. Like the one next to him was currently doing, hemming and hawing over details that 99.9% of people didn’t care about. 

Sighing deeply, Swindle shifts forward in his seat, “I am sorry to interrupt you Rick, but uh, we do in fact have a time frame to fit into, so if we could wrap up the science and make way for the pilots that would be great.” The NASA expert, Richard something, quickly shut up.

Scratching lightly at his jaw, Swindle smiles his award winning smile and stands, adjusting the microphone, “Well, it’s good to see all your familiar faces again. Welcome back to the Kennedy Space Center, we’ve got some exciting news for today.” Several hands were already in the air, but he elected to ignore them, “We have the absolute pleasure of introducing the crew of Arcturus Three and their spacecraft the Iliad, which yes, I know that was supposed to come before the Odyssey but we didn’t think we’d go with the mythology aspect till after the first shuttle was painted.” A few reporters chuckle and others keep their hands up.

It took a moment for him to take a breath and gesture to one of the reporters with their hand up, “You,” she smiles and stands, “Lillian Carmichael, The Wall Street Journal, are you going to talk about the loss of pilot 2672?” Nodding slowly, Swindle takes a breath, “His call sign was Cliffjumper, that was his name, not his number Lillian. They are people who are giving their lives for our planet, there is no greater sacrifice. So, no, we aren’t going to talk about Cliff cause his family will be watching this broadcast and it’s hard enough to miss him then to hear us talk about his sacrifice as if it meant nothing.” Clearing his throat a bit, he nods.

“Now, we’re here today to introduce the crew of Arcturus Three and their spacecraft.” He smiles and steps to the side, a projection lighting up behind him, “Meet the Iliad, the newest version of NASA’s space shuttle.” It looked nothing like the space shuttle and looked much more like something that would attach to the international space station, “Richard, you know more details on this.” Sitting back down, Swindle adjusted his hat. 

This state of the art spacecraft was designed specifically for the transportation of mech suits and the study of the foreign enemy, from space of course. Swindle would not let another good pilot die cause they sent them up there with little to nothing. 

The Iliad would be sent up initially in pieces, which would come together to reform the outer structure of the ship. Those pieces would remain in orbit where the rocket would be able to connect it and the suits necessary for the mission, while propelling the entire structure out into space. The pilots wouldn’t go up with the pieces, just their suits and the initial shuttle, it would give them more maneuverability in the long run and something for Mecha to maintain contact with when all the pilots kicked the bucket, again. 

It was a horrible thought, Swindle knew this but what other choice did any of them have at this point? These things were getting bigger and badder, and in the two years since Arcturus One the number had gone up by another thousand pilots. Most of them died in compatibility testing in other countries, but that didn’t take away from the fact that there were another thousand dead pilots and nearly another million civilians. 

The man from NASA lightly cleared his throat,  “Sir?” “Hmm?” Glancing back up, Swindle smiles, “Oh, my turn again? Great.” He stands back up, smiling brightly and adjusting his suit jacket.

”Ladies and gentlemen, now I have the absolute pleasure of introducing you to our pilots for Arcturus Three!” The door to the side of the stage opens and he extends an arm, grinning as each pilot comes out to their name. “Pilot 3141, callsign Perceptor. Pilot 6986, callsign Hot Rod. Pilot 17741, callsign Arcee. Along with their medical officer, code name Ratchet.” The four people come up to the stage and take their seats, dressed in NASA gear. 

—

Swindle was talking on and on, about the differences for this mission and how nothing like Arcturus Two would happen to this group and blah blah blah. 

Currently, Jesse was twirling a pen through his fingers, running his tongue along his teeth and very clearly bored. A few reports snapped pictures, which he was almost smiling for without even trying. His look was very reminiscent of IceMan from Top Gun in that moment, bored and full of potential.

The female pilot to his right was quick to snatch the pen from his hands, whispering harshly, “Would you stop that? This is a press conference.” Cecilia put the pen back on the table, just out of his reach with a scowl, “We’re meant to look professional.” Jesse tried not to smirk, whispering back, “Yeah, I don’t think you reprimanding me is helping that case much Arcee.” She went to open her mouth again before just scowled and shifted her attention back to the speaker from NASA.

Now there was a pilot who knew what she was doing, Arcee had come to the program more recently than most. At least more than those still alive. She had made waves protecting Washington DC and the Chesapeake area in the last four years, for a lot of people it was like she had come out of nowhere. 

Those in the program had known her and her mentor for longer, though she was young, too young to get the implants up until a few years ago. Now, she was leading in this year's kill count, even as others were falling and the survival rate of pilots was dropping. Originally, she wasn’t scheduled for an Arcturus Mission till the fifth one, but certain securities must be taken.

Afterall, you needed someone who knew how to fly that was mentally stable enough to do it. 

Preceptor was the only other pilot on the stage and he was taking notes of everything that the engineer from NASA was saying, biting the end of the pen every time the speaker took a breath. He’d worked on this project from both sides and was keeping track of what was being said, compared to what was actually happening. The man from NASA wasn’t entirely accurate. 

It still dragged on before questions were finally allowed to be asked, at which point Swindle stood, “Let’s stick to the guidelines people, you know what you can ask the pilots and what you can’t. Keep it PG if you can.” Most of the reporters laughed, not realizing the last bit was for the pilots on the stage. 

Several hands went in the air and questions were being shouted in every direction, “Hot Rod, why did you sign up for Arcturus?” “Preceptor, Sir, why have you decided to become a full time pilot?” “Arcee, what do you think the commander will think of this change of schedule?” “Hot Rod, are you sad your other group mate Springer is not on the register for these missions?” “Arcee, are you prepared to fly such an experimental spacecraft?” “Preceptor, why do you think you’re going on this specific mission?” And they went on. 

—

The workshop was dark except for an area in the corner, where an older man was working by the light of a desk lamp, a large wrench was leaned against his chair and his hair was tinted with grey.

Swindle closes the door with a bang, hands in his pockets as he starts over, “You were missed at the press conference.” The older man grunted in response, rolling his chair back while lifting the obscenely large wrench, moving over to another workbench and turning on a small lamp there. 

It left a soft glow on his scowling face, sighing, he looked up, “What do you want, Swindle?” Smiling, Swindle heads over slowly. The whole space was generally kept tidy but lately it looked like a bull had been let loose in the china shop, “Just to talk about Arcturus Three.” Ratchet groaned.

”I don’t know why you keep pestering me about the project, and honestly I don’t appreciate you interrupting my work.” Swindle lightly kicked something out his way, humming, “Because you’re a part of the crew for this mission Ratchet. You know that.” Ratchet set the wrench on the table, likely so he didn’t swing it at Swindle’s head. 

Moving over, Swindle leans against the edge of the desk, “You know why you have to go Doc.” Ratchet scowls and glares at Swindle, “Shouldn’t it have been my choice?” Smiling sadly, Swindle shrugs a bit, “It would have been, had you not taken that thing into your little workshop here.” There was an angry rev from the dark corner of the shop, Swindle loosely waves his hand, “Oh shut up you overgrown pile of bolts. Look, the only safe place for that thing—““His name is Deadlock.” Standing, Ratchet jabbed a finger at his chest. 

With a nod, Swindle removes his hand and scratches at his old implants, they’d been capped years ago but still would itch with scaring, “The only safe place for him is as far from Shockwave as he can be, we both know this.” Slowly, he lowers himself onto a nearby stool.

Ratchet stared and shook his head, “He’s been plenty safe here.” Swindles laughs, “Has been and will be are two entirely different statements and you down well know it. If Shockwave gets so much as a whiff of him, he’ll do worse than dissect him, he’ll dissect you for protecting him. And we both know I can’t stop him.” He adjusts his blazer slightly, shaking his head.

Swindle had tried to fire the psychopath more than once, on a number of grounds, even his own torture but the congressman was far to popular and the government footed to much of the bill. His constituents footed most of the bill. Sure, not having to worry about putting his own money into the company made him a bit more at ease but that didn’t take away whatever the hell Shockwave was. 

“Shockwave wants to move into a bigger lab space and we’ve bought the plot next door, there is no way your friend there would be safe and I think it’s best if we stuck with human technology torturing us all. Not whatever the hell he is.” There was another angry rev, though it sounded much more like a growl. Swindle nodded slightly and put his hat back on, “Plus, Roddy is going on this mission. It’s starting to get around that you and him have grown close because of experimental tech.” Ratchet’s eyes widened and he glanced towards Deadlock, hidden in alt mode in the dark. 

Taking a breath, Ratchet looks back, “So, you’re launching me into space to face certain doom then?” Swindle shakes his head, “I’m sending you after who we’ve lost.” With a scoff, Ratchet stands and heads back to his other work space, “I can’t believe this.” Swindle followed, “Neither of you are safe if you stay.” The growling started back up, accompanied by a voice, “I can keep us safe.” Swindle glared at the car, “Like hell you can! Not against a man who has been working on the mecha program longer than most pilots have been alive!” He turns back to Ratchet. 

A loud bang drew Swindle’s eyes back to Ratchet, who had slammed his project against the table, “We can handle that threat.” Swindle laughed, pulling at his hair peeking out from under his hat, “You can’t. This is the man that convinced Blurr back into a suit, the reason why Vortex is the way he is, and a monster unafraid to do whatever it takes to reach his fucking monsterous goals!” He jabs a finger into Ratchet’s chest, “He wants all of us dead Ratchet! He doesn’t even see it that way, but he is willing to kill every living thing to end this war!” He grabs Ratchet’s shoulders and starts shaking him.

The sound of grinding metal and shifting gears was loud, but Swindle didn’t let go of Ratchet, “He will kill you and that thing that is your friend if you don’t go! And I won’t let him kill the one person who tried to save us!” Trying to catch his breath, Swindle stared at Ratchet’s wide eyes, “Rusty, I can’t let him kill you. I owe you my life and I will fulfill my debts.” Ratchet rolled his eyes slightly before resting a hand on Swindle’s shoulder, “Alright, alright.” He sighed slowly, letting go of Ratchet and taking a step back, adjusting his blazer.

Turning, he could have shit his pants as something almost as big as a modern mech glared down at him.

Ratchet’s hand came down and rested on Swindle’s shoulder, “Relax kid, he’s just trying to protect us in his typical asshole kinda way.” The thing growled again, “Like I said, in his asshole kinda way. Breathe and go back to recharge.” It grumbled before turning back into a, well, it looked like an EMT chase vehicle. 

Nodding slowly, Swindle sighed, “We both know Shockwave would want his hands on that kind of—“”You say technology and he will shoot you.” Nodding again, Swindle adjusted his hat before looking back to Ratchet, “You fly in a year’s time. I can get him up on part of the Iliad as soon as next month, but it does need to happen.” Ratchet sighed and nodded, “We’ll talk about it later.” Swindle nodded before starting back towards the door, touching his implants briefly, “I meant it Ratchet, I owe you a debt and this is how it’s going to be paid.” Then he left. 

—

It was late and the warehouse was empty except for a few pilots and their mechs being fitted with new gear, but that would start in the morning. At the moment, Hot Rod, Arcee, and Preceptor were sitting around a small table eating take out. 

Jesse was once again twirling around what he was holding, though this time it was a chopstick, “I want to know why they have sent five people on this mission and with one missing our mission isn’t potential recovery.” Cecilia sighs before shaking her head, “Cliff is gone Roddy and I don’t think anything is going to bring him back.” Percy hummed, setting down his food for a moment. 

It took a moment for him to figure out how to phrase what he was going to say kindly, “Cliffjumper was a strong pilot but not one built for solo missions, I think sending him on Arcturus Two was their easiest way of getting rid of the problem child.” Jesse snorted and Cecilia hit his shoulder, he deserved that.

”I’m being serious Percy, Cliff is either dead or wishing he was, and I don’t wish that on anyone.” They fell quiet for a moment, Percy picking his food back up and Roddy stabbing his chopsticks into the sushi on the table.

A door across the hanger from them banged open and a familiar face came strolling in, white coat a stark contrast to the dark space as always, Jesse looked up and grinned, “Ratchet, come on, we got your favorite.” He moved over slowly and grabbed one of the chairs, turning it before sitting in it with the back of it against his chest and grabbing his takeout container, “Thanks kid.” Percy smiled a bit, “It was Jesse’s idea for us to do this tonight.” Rusty hummed.

It had been two years to the day since the launch of Arcturus One, one year since Arcturus Two and a year from this day would be their own launch. 

Jesse popped a piece of sushi in his mouth and started talking, “So, why the four of us? I mean, I know Springer wasn’t found compatible for this specific mission but I know some of Breakdown’s brothers wanted to go. We all know Aid’ was supposed to be on this mission, but uh,” They all shifted a bit uncomfortably, “And Jazz’s brother wanted on but he got stuck with like, Arcturus Five, right?” Cecilia nodded, sighing. 

Clearing her throat, Cecilia sat forward, “We know why suit eleven isn’t going,” “It’s too heavy for the Iliad to carry it up.” Percy nodded slightly and Arcee rolled her eyes, “As for everyone else, I don’t think we’re going to know. I think we’re just going to be kept in the dark on that front.” Jesse rolled his eyes and Rusty nodded.

The older man sat forward, “I think dwelling on who could have been on this mission is the wrong move, we can see who is going to be on it and now we’ve got to figure out not only how to work together but how to understand each other.” Percy nodded and Cecilia shifted a bit in her seat.

Pilots were not team players typically, not since, well, regardless they weren’t team players anymore. 

“I still think it needs to be said and asked, why us?” Roddy gestured around with his chopstick, which he went back to twirling through his fingers. They all glanced at each other and honestly, none of them knew why this group was paired together.

Cecilia shifted again, “Well, I’m the only one who knows how to fly, so that’s a bit of a given. Ratchet is medical as well as he can work with Preceptor, the Iliad is an experimental spacecraft.” Percy nodded, “Very experimental.” She smiled a bit and looked back to Jesse, “So the only one in question is you Roddy.” He was quick to throw a potsticker at her, “Can it Arcee, who asked you?” Ratchet chuckled, “You did.” “Oh shut up.” He was pouting now. 

Rain started to hit the metal roof, leaving a soft ringing sound throughout the hanger space. Three suits against the wall with tool boxes around them and supplies across the way; new seals, paint, and upgraded tech were all called for. Soon, three of the four of them would have to go through the next steps for their suit upgrades with the upgrades to their integrated tech, even before the NASA training would even start. 

It was daunting and scary, but in the moment of the four of them sitting around a commandeered workbench covered in takeout, talking like tomorrow would be the same as any other day gave them all some bit of relief. 

They would take off three years to the day from Arcturus One.

One year, counting down to July 10th 2016. 

———

A/N

So here is the something different! Now, this series is going to be 5 parts, compared to Arcturus Two’s single part which was logs from MECHA databases.

To clarify, Jesse is Hot Rod, Cecilia is Arcee, Percy is well Percy, and Rusty is Ratchet. The old man of the group.

This also confirms the timeline! Which originally before I fucked up the way space time works, I wanted this series to take place in 2004. I messed up and the current point in Arcturus One is them in 2014. They took off in mid 2013.

We will go back to our regularly scheduled programming, in which I continue to just try and keep writing and not lose inspiration.

Tags!

@lunarlei68 @whirlywhirlygig @loop-hole-319 @pixillandjester @alek-the-witch @not-a-moose-in-disguise @goddessofwind8water @neurologicalglitch @dersereblogger @pixel-transformers @mrcrayonofdoom @wireplaces @twilightfreefaller @original-blog-name-2 @devilangel657 @robbin-u @childofprimus @miniartistme @starwold @tea-enthusiasm @valeexpris606 @celticdoggo @bird599 @agentsquirrelsgotrobots @aquaioart @dimencreasatlas @thatwandercat @artdagz @seisha974 @starscreamloverfr @halenhusky309 @leethepiper @cat-cassette @blue-wrens @sirassban @astridkolch @cosmique-oddity @garbageenthusiast @osqindaxend @xervias @azulabutterfly @fryseem @spring-mc @echo-circuit @aghostsnail @wooblewooble @ask-glory-haddock-and-others @nonsscarpheap @magichats @iminahole247 @omgflyingderpywhale @pour1tin @thetrexartist @naaaafam

As always, I want to thank @keferon for this amazing AU and just giving us generally free rein.

[ultrakey]

Final Year Projects That Impress and Inspire

Stand out with smart, practical final year projects in tech, science, and engineering streams.

[signedaiko]

Hey Aiko! Thanks for the HCs from the last request, I really enjoyed reading every word of them.

You know those math equations where they spell “I Love You” as the final answers?

Could I request HCs of [MTMTE/LL] Perceptor where Cybertronian![Reader] [Gender Neutral] has a huge crush on him and pretends to ask for his help with some equations when they’re actually confessing their love to him through the complicated numbers and symbols?

Happy Ending: He likes them back.

Perceptor X Reader [MTMTE]

In which Perceptor's lab assistant confesses in the numeric language they both work with.

Reader is: Gender Neutral | Cybertronian | Autobot. Romantic.

The science wing aboard the Lost Light had become your home the last couple of months

More specifically, Perceptor's lab, where you'd been handpicked by the scientist to assist him with research

It was a dream come true! I mean, whatever the quest the ship was on was, it was fun and all, but having read every last one of Perceptor's research papers and lab reports, it felt wrong to be the one picked to help

He was Cybertron's genius, the best of the best, and he wasn't weird about it either

Most days you'd stand in the lab, comparing and accumulating data relevant to his research, taking care of any specimen, and cleaning

Most commonly, you were tasked with chemical waste disposal; each chemical was different, and each process was longer than the last

Today, however, Perceptor tasked you with sorting through the 'other' portfolio of research data

It was a list of all kinds of extras that were never finished, tasks galore.

It was also the perfect opportunity for you to work closely with him, since he was helping you comb through it

"What about the anti-anti-matter gun?"

"Anything with the word 'gun' is just Brainstorm trying to get me to do his projects for him. Dispose of it."

While he handled the physical box of 'other' projects, you were sifting through the online database

Thankfully your job was easier because you'd been so distracted watching him across from you and mulling over your plan that you wouldn't get anywhere otherwise

Truthfully, you'd long since sorted through everything using a quick sorting algorithm, but you'd been pretending to keep busy as you contemplated the pros and cons of confessing to Perceptor

He was your boss; if he didn't feel the same, it'd be awkward working with him every day

But your work performance was dropping with all the time you spent staring at him and daydreaming of your lives together

"Sorry, Perceptor, one last question. What is this?"

It was an entry with one equation: 9x - 7i > 3(3x - 7u)

"Don't know; you can note what it solves and delete the main file."

"But what are we solving for?"

Your bait worked, and the scientist stood up to walk behind you, leaning over your chair to get a better glimpse

"Nothing, you're supposed to fill in for 'i' and 'u,' but you can simplify it."

He leaned further in to point at the brackets

"Multiply everything in there by three. Yes, just like that. So now we have 9x - 7i > 9x - 21u."

As funny as it was that he thought you couldn't calculate it on your own, you let him continue

"9x is then cancelled out on both sides, leaving you with -7i > -21u. just divide by three and then..."

"i <3 u"

"Yes, exactly, that's as simplified as you can get it until you identify 'i' and 'u'"

Your smile faltered, realizing he may have still not understood what it said

God, how could you have expected this to work?

"Thanks, Perc—"

"For example, you could substitute 'i' for 'Perceptor' and 'u' for you. Come on now, don't act like I couldn't figure out your game. You think so little of my intellect?"

When you turned to look at him, you realized he was looking at you rather than the screen, a cocky smile sprawled across his face

"I swear I don't; I was just—"

"Just what? Thinking I thought you couldn't solve simple operations? Thinking I would have 'forgotten' such a small equation in my data banks?"

You hid your face behind your hands to try and hide the blush, but Perceptor was already chuckling and pulling you up from where you sat

"Well, if it means anything..."

He reached to the keyboard, adding an extra character

'i <3 u 2'

Author's Note - I love this guy. What a fella, what an enjoyable cocky fella!!!! Thank you for requesting!