#waveform monitor

[commodorez]

New piece of test equipment for the workbench:

Tektronix 1730 Waveform Monitor

Now I can monitor all the waveforms. Just need to find a 1720 Vectorscope to go with it...

[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.

[lektoheart]

Beta 0.5 has released! Download it here

Change Log:

Updated Game Loop: The game loop has been changed to be more simulation focused. Now the patient will always start conscious and the player will have to make them enter arrest. Currently, the only ways to accomplish this is by shocking their heart repeatedly or by making their heart rate go too high or too low.

Added a heart monitor. The monitor will display the waveform of the current heart rhythm. It can also play heartbeat sounds, beep sounds, or nothing, depending on the settings set in the user preferences menu.

Control Updates: The charge settings of the defib and aed modes must now be controlled manually using the arrow keys. The controls for changing the selected character have been moved to the tab key. Additionally, the controls for changing the patient's heartbeat can be accessed by pressing the Z key.

Modifiers: The Endless and Arrest Happy modifier have been removed, as they now longer fit the new game loop. The Faint Heart modifier has been added, which lowers the patient's max heart health by 50%. This makes it easier to make the patient enter arrest, as well as makes them easier to revive.

New Characters: Evelyn and June

New Stage: Gym

[iibgdrgn]

star-shaped healing recipe | kwon ji-yong

pairing: 2010! kwon ji-yong x male reader

word count: 3.4k

warnings: none

a/n: heeellooo. don’t have so much to say, this is pure fluff. i got inspired by that video where bom goes to the studio even though she's sick. :p enjoyyy!

It was the second day of your cold, the day when everything just felt worse. Your head was heavy, your throat felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper, and your entire body pulsed with feverish heat despite the biting winter chill outside. You couldn't even remember how you got sick in the first place. Maybe it was the night you stubbornly walked out without a coat, thinking winter wouldn't dare mess with your schedule. Now, your whole body was paying the price.

Still, despite the pounding in your head and the scratch in your throat that burned every time you swallowed, you didn't think twice about showing up. You'd promised Ji-yong you'd be at the studio today to record your part of the song, and you weren't about to break that promise. He'd been working hard trying to finish this track so he could move on to the next one. You knew how much it meant to him. How much he hated leaving things unfinished.

So... you didn't tell him you were sick.

Instead, you bundled yourself in two coats, wrapped your thickest scarf twice around your neck, and downed two mugs of ginger tea like a desperate spell. You even took cough drops like candy, hoping the mint would numb your throat long enough to sing something usable.

You arrived a little late, the cold biting at your cheeks as you stepped into the hallway. Through the half-closed door of the studio, you saw him.

Ji-yong was sitting at the desk, hoodie up, scarf around his neck, pen tapping rhythmically against his notebook. His head moved with the silent beat in his head, brows slightly furrowed, completely immersed in whatever he was writing. He was quiet, focused, beautiful in a way that made you pause outside the door, just watching.

You pushed the door open gently.

The sound made him lift his head, and the second he saw you, his whole face lit up. That soft, almost boyish grin appeared immediately as he patted the empty chair beside him.

Ji-yong turned his chair to look at you.

"Good morning, jagi." He said, smiling.

You barely had time to smile before his hands were on your face, cupping your cheeks gently as he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead. His scarf brushing your face.

He pulled back slightly and frowned. "Wait... babe—you're burning up."

He stared at you, frowning now, one palm going to your cheek like he needed to confirm it. The warmth of his touch was oddly comforting, and you leaned into it for just a second too long.

"Hm? I had to run. I forgot to eat, so I stopped at that café near the corner. Didn't notice the time and I had to hurry."

Ji-yong squinted slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Why didn't you just eat downstairs? The cafeteria's open."

You didn't answered for a moment, and you thought he catched you.

"They didn't had what I wanted."

He didn't speak for a second, just stared at you with narrowed eyes like he was replaying the conversation in his mind. But then... he let it go.

A soft exhale. A quiet smile. He gave your cheek one last squeeze, then turned back to his desk, spinning slightly in his chair as he focused on the screen in front of him. The track was already loaded, the waveforms of the instruments and vocals dancing on the monitor.

"Alright," he said, tone shifting into something more practical, "your part starts here."

He passed you his notebook, where your verse was neatly handwritten, little annotations scribbled in the margins, underlined words he wanted emphasized, a couple of circled syllables. His handwriting was a little messy, but somehow still elegant.

You nodded as you scanned the lines, trying to ignore the fact that the letters were starting to blur.

Ji-yong didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn't suspect anything beyond your usual sleep-deprived self. He leaned over the console, adjusting the levels, humming softly under his breath. "We'll do a soft take first. Just to warm up your voice."

He was being gentle without realizing it.

You stood, slipping off your coat slowly, careful not to let the sudden wave of chills show on your face. The cold clung to your skin like a second layer, and even with the thick scarf around your neck, your body trembled slightly as you crossed the room.

Ji-yong glanced up from the controls, smiling again. "Ready?"

You nodded once, then stepped inside the booth. You let out a quiet breath, one hand pressing against the headphones as you slid them on, the other adjusting the mic with fingers that trembled just a little too much.

He adjusted the track from the other side of the glass and gave you a thumbs up, his expression glowing with quiet anticipation.

The track started in your headphones. You took a deep breath, trying to summon the voice you'd practiced all week, but as soon as you opened your mouth, only a faint, strained whisper came out. The note cracked on the second syllable, your throat tightening painfully.

Ji-yong's brows pinched the slightest bit. He leaned toward the screen, adjusted the input volume, then spoke into the mic.

"Let's try that one more time, love. I think the input was a little low."

You gave a small nod, trying to act like it wasn't your voice at fault.

The instrumental restarted. You cleared your throat, softly, and tried again. This time you made it halfway through the verse before your voice gave out completely, breaking into a dry cough that you couldn't suppress.

Through the glass, Ji-yong's expression shifted, his smile dropped, concern flickering into his features as he leaned back in his chair.

He didn't press the button to speak this time. Instead, he stood up.

You saw him disappear from view for a moment. A second later, he was outside the booth.

You lowered your hand from your mouth, trying to play it off like nothing happened, but your flushed face and watery eyes because of the cough betrayed you before you could say a word.

Ji-yong stepped inside, softly closing the door behind him. The noise of the outside world faded instantly, leaving just the two of you in a cozy, quiet little bubble.

"Hey," he said, voice so gentle it made your chest ache. "You okay?"

You opened your mouth, but words didn't come out right away. His eyes, those warm, worried eyes, made it hard to lie.

Still, you gave a small, guilty shrug and managed a whisper, "I'm fine. Just... didn't warm up properly."

Ji-yong didn't respond right away. Instead, he took a single step closer, then slowly, lifted his hand and rested it against your cheek. His palm was cool compared to your skin, and the moment he touched you, his brows drew in with worry.

"You're burning up again," he murmured. "Like—seriously, babe. You've got a fever."

You looked away, guilty. "It's not that bad. I just didn't want to cancel today. You've been working so hard, and I thought if I layered up and drank tea, I'd be fine."

Ji-yong’s eyes softened, the corners of his mouth tugging down, not in frustration, but in that tender way he only reserved for you when he was worried.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, brushing a strand of hair gently behind your ear.

You blinked slowly, lips parting, but no words came out.

He sighed, but it wasn't annoyed. It was fond. Deeply, achingly fond.

"Baby," he whispered, stepping even closer, "I don't care about the song more than I care about you."

You looked up at him, and he cupped your face with both hands now, thumbs brushing softly over your cheeks.

"But-"

He didn't let you finish. He shook his head with the faintest smile, something half tender and half teasing, but all love.

"We can try it another day, yeah?" he said softly. "Don't force your pretty voice."

His words made your chest feel warm, well, warmer than it already was, thanks to the fever. You tried to hold onto your resolve, the need to not be a burden, to just do your part, but Ji-yong's voice had a way of quieting all that. He leaned in just a little, resting his forehead against yours again, his hands still cradling your face like it was something delicate.

"You think I'd rather hear the song than take care of you?" he asked, voice muffled by the closeness. "Nah. Not even close."

You laughed, weakly. "You're being too sweet now."

He smirked and pulled back just enough to look at you fully. "That's not even my final form."

Then, with that same relaxed confidence he always carried, Ji-yong dropped his hands from your face only to link your fingers together, squeezing gently. He tugged you toward the studio door.

"Come on," he said, glancing back at you with a boyish grin that made your chest do a little somersault. "You're leaving with me."

"We can try one more time—”

"The song isn't going anywhere," he interrupted, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. "You, however, are going straight to bed, with a hot drink and maybe my hoodie if you're nice."

You couldn't help it—you let out a small, tired laugh.

"I've got you, okay?" he whispered. "Let me take care of you."

And just like that, the fight left your body.

You nodded weakly, giving his hand a squeeze back. "Okay."

Ji-yong's smile widened, relieved, like he'd just won a battle he hadn't wanted to fight in the first place. He was already grabbing your coat, helping you slide your arms through the sleeves like it was something he did every day. When he noticed your scarf was too loosely tied, he fixed it too—wrapping it snugly, tucking it in neatly, and then stepping back to admire his work like a proud stylist.

"Perfect. My sick but still cute boyfriend," he murmured, kissing the tip of your nose.

You swatted his chest gently. "Don't make me blush while I'm a snotty mess."

"You always blush when I compliment you," he grinned. "Sick or not."

Once inside the car, he buckled you in before you could argue, then reached into the back seat and pulled out an extra hoodie—his hoodie. The one that always smelled like his cologne and fabric softener. He slipped it over your head gently, careful not to pull too hard.

[ ... ]

You were tucked into Ji-yong's bed like you were the most precious thing on earth. Between the three layers of clothes he insisted you wear—"just until your fever goes down"—and the mountain of blankets he'd carefully arranged around you, you were basically a walking pile of warmth. Or rather, a laying one.

The blankets smelled like his laundry detergent, soft and clean, but every now and then you caught hints of his cologne too faint, lingering on the pillow your head rested against.

Earlier, he'd pressed the thermometer to your temple, watching the numbers with narrowed eyes. The moment it beeped, he let out the gentlest tsk, shaking his head like he'd just confirmed a suspicion he didn't want to be true.

Then, he'd stood up with a sigh and ran a hand through his hair.

He vanished into the kitchen like a man on a mission. You could hear the shuffle of cabinets opening, a short pause, then the unmistakable clack-clack of him typing on his phone. A second later: "Okay, okay... lemon... honey... ginger...? Do we have ginger?"

You weren't sure who he was asking, but it made you smile.

Now, a few minutes later, you sat upright in his bed, your hands were wrapped around a mug he'd brought in earlier—tea, made exactly how Google (and Ji-yong's overprotective instincts) had instructed. The steam curled up toward your face, warming your nose and cheeks, and the sharp smell of citrus hit your senses just before the taste did. Your throat stung a little when you sipped it—but it was that good kind of sting, the one that made you feel like something was already working.

You smiled into the mug, heart stupidly full. You could hear him humming from the kitchen—some random melody, probably not even aware he was doing it. A clink of metal against ceramic told you he was still cooking, and you swore the soup was already healing you just from the smell alone.

You cleared your throat and called out softly, your voice still scratchy. "Ji, come sit with me."

There was a small pause.

"Jagi, don't force your voice!" he called back, half-panicked, like you'd just committed a crime. "You're supposed to be resting."

"I just miss you," you said, loud enough for him to hear.

He peeked into the room a few seconds later, holding a wooden spoon like a sword. His eyes narrowed dramatically, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You miss me? I've been gone six minutes."

"Too long."

Ji-yong sighed in exaggerated defeat, setting the spoon down on the counter with a theatrical spin.

"Okay, okay, fine. My soup chef duties can wait... for like, three minutes."

He padded back over to the bed, crawling up gently so he didn't spill your tea or crush any of the blankets. As soon as he settled beside you, he tugged the covers up a little higher around your shoulders and rested a hand on your thigh, patting it lightly.

"You warm enough?" he asked, voice quieter now, close to your ear.

You nodded, leaning your head against his shoulder with a tired sigh. "Mmm. Just missing the human heater effect."

"Aha," he chuckled, shifting closer so your legs touched. "So you admit you only wanted me here for body heat?"

You turned your face up slightly, giving him a small, sleepy smirk. "That... and maybe a forehead kiss."

Ji-yong grinned and didn't hesitate. He leaned in, brushing his lips gently across your forehead, staying there for a few seconds—long enough to make your heart ache in the best way.

"Demanding," he teased quietly. "But lucky for you, I'm obsessed with you."

You smiled into his shoulder, cheeks growing warm for a reason that had nothing to do with the fever. His fingers were still resting gently on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy little shapes through the blanket like he didn't even realize he was doing it.

When you looked up, Ji-yong was already gazing at you, eyes full of that soft, fond glow he always got. His face inched closer, breath mingling with yours. One second. Two. The distance between your lips barely existed anymore. Your heart skipped. Even sick and sweaty and puffy-eyed, he still wanted to kiss you?

But just as his lips brushed against yours, you turned your head away quickly, your cheek now pressed against his nose instead. He blinked in surprise and pulled back slightly, eyebrows shooting up.

"...Wait," he said, blinking again, pretending to look offended. "Did you just dodge me?"

You looked up at him through slightly tired eyes, your voice hoarse but serious. "I don't want you to get sick."

Ji-yong's expression softened in an instant, all mock offense melting away. His hand dropped to your knee, fingertips tracing gently over the fabric of the sweatpants he'd changed you into earlier. The pads of his fingers moved in soft circles, comforting and slow.

"I would take the risk," he said softly, almost in a whisper, like it was a confession he'd been holding onto all day.

You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could say a word, he leaned in and kissed your cheek instead.

Your breath hitched a little, throat tight—not just from the cold, but from the sheer gentleness of it all.

When he pulled back, he didn't move far. His hand slid up to your shoulders, large and warm, and in one tender motion, he pulled you into him, tucking your head beneath his chin, wrapping his arms around you like he was trying to shield you from the whole world.

He was just starting to drift off, his arms wrapped around you like he never wanted to let go, when suddenly, a thought popped into his head that jolted him awake.

"The soup!" he gasped, sitting up like a cat sensing danger, eyes wide with realization.

Before you could even answer, Ji-yong had already leapt off the bed with all the grace and panic of someone who'd just remembered they left the stove on—which, well, he technically did.

You couldn't help it—you laughed, a hoarse little giggle that made your throat scratch but warmed your chest anyway.

"I'll be right back, jagi!" he called over his shoulder, already halfway into the kitchen.

You heard drawers open and close, and a triumphant hum coming from him like he was scoring his own cooking montage in his head. You leaned back against the pillows, cradling the tea he made you, feeling ridiculously spoiled.

A few minutes later, Ji-yong poked his head around the doorframe, cheeks slightly pink from the heat in the kitchen.

His hair was a little messier than before, a few strands sticking up like they'd fought a mini battle with the steam. A dish towel was slung haphazardly over his shoulder, and he was holding a steaming bowl like it was a trophy.

"You better be sitting exactly where I left you," he said, raising a brow in mock sternness.

You lifted the tea mug with both hands like a student proving good behavior. "Still here. Drinking your homemade medicinal lemon potion."

He chuckled, stepping into the room fully now. "Put that down. I have something better."

With a flourish and a proud little bow, Ji-yong revealed the soup bowl like he was presenting a gourmet dish on a cooking show.

"I added noodles," he said, puffing up slightly, "so it doesn't look so… depressing. And a tiny bit of sesame oil, because I heard that's comforting. I also cut the carrots into stars but don't look too close because some of them are... a little abstract. "

You laughed, and then looked down at the bowl—and yeah, some of the carrots were absolutely lopsided and slightly tragic-looking, but there was something so soft, so purely him in every crooked little cut. There were even tiny flecks of green onion floating around, and a few baby mushrooms peeking from the broth like they were shy.

You picked up the spoon, blew gently on the surface, and took a small sip. It was warm, savory, a little too peppery—but honestly? It was perfect. Not because of the flavor, but because he made it.

You turned toward him slowly. "This is honestly... so good."

He beamed. Beamed. That unmistakable kind of grin that stretched from cheek to cheek and made his eyes turn into little crescent moons. His shoulders rose with pride like you'd just told him he won an award. "Yeah?"

You nodded, patting the bed beside you in invitation, and he didn't hesitate—his steps light as he made his way over like you'd just opened the gates to his favorite place in the world. He climbed onto the bed gently, careful not to jostle your tray, and immediately leaned in with his whole side against yours, shoulder to shoulder, like he wanted to be as close to you as physics would allow.

Then he stopped himself. "Eat first," he said, kissing your temple. "Then we cuddle. No negotiations."

You gave a sleepy little nod, resting your head against his shoulder for a second before taking another spoon.

And in that moment, with noodles shaped like stars, warm blankets wrapped around you, and Ji-yong watching over you like you were the most precious thing on the world, you started to feel just the tiniest bit better.

[alltimecharlo]

First I just want to say how obsessed I am with your writing and how amazing it is. Having said that I know you already write mic’d up Mack but could you write about mic’d up Will?

thank you so much!!! 🥹 yes, i certainly can! this is a follow-up to the mack mic'd up fic! under the cut :)🩵

Mack swears he’s only ducking into the media office because Maggie texted urgent in all caps. Otherwise he’d be shower‑napping like any sane person thirty minutes after practice.

But Maggie’s the in‑arena video wizard who controls how the internet sees him, so he figures he’d better answer the bat signal.

He finds her and Max hunched over the big editing monitor. A waveform snakes across the timeline, Will’s voice chattering bright and fast in the speakers.

“—I’m just saying, if Mack had been born in like, Arthurian times? Knight. No question. Probably Lancelot.”

Mack stops in the doorway. “What did I just walk in on?”

Maggie jumps. “Perfect. You’re here.”

Max swivels, grinning. “Congrats, Mack, you’re the secret protagonist of Mic’d Up: Will Smith Edition.”

Mack pinches the bridge of his nose. “He talked about me the whole time, didn’t he?”

Maggie gestures helplessly at the screen. “There are chirps. Good ones. But also… this.”

She rewinds a few seconds and hits play.

Will (recorded): “Look at Mack’s edgework on that last turn. Guy’s poetry in motion. Hate him.”

Someone off‑camera laughs.

Will: “Seriously, watch him cut back on the next rep—boom, gone. It’s illegal to be that smooth.”

Mack’s ears go hot. “Oh my god.”

Max scrubs forward.

Will: “Hey, Toff, you ever notice Mack smells like cookies and good decisions? No? Just me? Cool.”

Mack buries his face in his hands. “Delete it.”

“Can’t,” Maggie says, eyes gleaming. “League content team wants sixty seconds by tomorrow. The fans will riot if we leave this on the cutting‑room floor.”

Max thumbs the space‑bar again.

Will (whisper‑level): “There he is—look at him. Number 71, love of my life, destroyer of worlds, holder of the best backhand in the Pacific Division—”

“MAX,” Mack snaps. Max cackles and pauses the clip.

Maggie props her chin on her fist. “We can trim out the Shakespearean sonnet bits. But… it’s kind of adorable. And fair is fair—you soft‑launched him last week.”

Mack groans into the sleeve of his hoodie. “He’s never living this down.”

“Pretty sure he doesn’t want to,” Max says. “Listen to this last tag.”

Play.

Will: “—anyway that’s Mack. Best part of my day. Don’t tell him I said that, he’ll get all grumpy and pretend he’s not blushing.”

The feed clicks off.

Silence.

Mack’s heartbeat is in his ears. He risks a look at the screen freeze‑frame: Will on the bench, cheeks flushed, grin wide as the bay while he tugs at a water‑bottle lid. Happy. Talking about him.

Maggie’s voice drops. “We’ll blur whatever you want, but… honestly? People love you two. Feels good, letting a little of it show.”

Mack exhales slowly. “Fine. Keep thirty seconds. Lose the cookies line.”

Max mock‑salutes. “Aye‑aye, First Overall.”

Mack turns to leave, then hesitates. “Can you export that raw file to my phone?”

Maggie smiles. “Already AirDropped.”

—

He sends the clip to Will with no caption. Three dots bubble, disappear, bubble again.

Will: soooooo you saw the advanced scouting report huh

Mack: i smell like cookies??

Will: thought YOU said that once in the room?? i’m just agreeing 😌

Mack: i’m going to dunk you in the cold tub tomorrow

Will: promise?

Will: (also you look stupid handsome in that b‑roll, just saying)

Mack pockets his phone, cheeks still on fire, and heads for the showers. He’s got practice in the morning, chirps to endure, and one over‑eager boyfriend to toss in seventy gallons of frigid water.

For some reason, the day suddenly feels perfect.

♡

[magic-shop-stories]

Hey there! I just read Yoongi as a father, and I absolutely loved the way you wrote the emotions—it hit me right in the heart! Your writing is so immersive, and I was wondering if I could request something? Could you write a scenario where one of the BTS members (maybe Yoongi or Namjoon?) finds the reader/OC completely at rock bottom like emotionally and physically drained, feeling utterly hopeless but instead of letting them push him away, he slowly helps them heal? I’d love to see that transition from heavy angst to the softest, most comforting fluff, with lots of patience, late-night talks, and maybe some found family vibes. Just something that makes the reader feel safe again.

No pressure at all, but I’d love to see your take on this! Thank you so much, and I hope you have a wonderful day!

💌 Reply:

Ahh, thank you so much for your kind words! I'm really happy that Yoongi as a father resonated with you, it means a lot! This request immediately tugged at my heart, and I knew I had to write it. There's something powerful about someone refusing to leave when you feel like not being saved. I poured a lot of emotion into this, and I hope it gives you that deep angst and quiet, healing comfort you were looking for. Sending you lots of love! 💜

REQUEST NAME:

when the silence breaks

↳ Yoongi x Reader (Platonic/Close Friends/More?); Angst with Fluff,

Rating: M

Word Count: ~3.7k

Genre: Angst with Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Slow Healing, Slow Burn

Warnings: Depression, self-neglect, suicidal ideation (implied past attempt), emotional breakdown, dissociation, guilt, recovery themes, strong language

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader (Platonic)

Featuring: Stubborn but deeply caring Yoongi, raw emotions, slow recovery, acts of service as love, quiet but unwavering support, and a hoodie that carries too much history

The last time you saw Yoongi, he’d snapped.

It wasn’t his fault, not really. But guilt doesn’t care about fairness.

You’d dragged yourself to his studio that night, a ghost in his stolen hoodie, the one he’d shrugged off weeks ago and never asked for back. The fabric still carried traces of his cologne, but now it clung to you like a second skin, sour with sweat and three days of unmoving air. Your hair hung in greasy strands, and your socks didn’t match, though you couldn’t remember when you’d last bothered to look. The walk there had been a blur of flickering streetlights and sidewalk cracks, each step heavier than the last.

Yoongi’s studio was a tomb of soundproofing foam and tangled cables, the air thick with the musk of coffee grounds and sleeplessness. He was hunched over his desk, fingers flying across the mixing board, eyes bloodshot. The monitors glowed like twin moons, casting his face in pallid blue. You hovered in the doorway, the hoodie’s sleeves swallowing your trembling hands, and waited for him to notice you.

He didn’t. Not until you choked out his name.

“Yoongi...”

Your voice was a rusted hinge. He jerked, pulling his earbuds out, and for a heartbeat, his face softened, the way it always did when he saw you, like you were a song he’d forgotten he loved. Then the deadlines came crashing back.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing his temple. A half-empty energy drink trembled near his elbow. “Didn’t know you were stopping by. Everything okay?”

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you mumbled about the therapy, the sessions that left your thoughts gauzy and your hands steadier, until they didn’t. “They’re… not working. I can’t... I keep...”

“Can this wait?” he interrupted, already turning back to the screen. “I’m up against a wall here, and Joon needs this track by...”

You didn’t hear the rest.

The world narrowed to the hum of his computer, the flicker of the waveform on the monitor, the way his shoulders tensed as he dove back into the mix. You stood there, shrinking under the weight of your own need, until the silence grew teeth.

Then you left.

The walk home was a fever dream. Rain slithered down your neck, but you barely felt it. Your phone buzzed once in your bag, a voicemail, you’d learn later, where his voice cracked over “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...” but you let it die, buried under a crumpled tteokbokki container and a mountain of unopened letters.

Your apartment was a museum of ruin. The ceiling fan hadn’t spun in weeks. A coffee mug lay shattered by the door, its shards glittering like misplaced stars. You’d thrown it last Tuesday, or maybe Wednesday, when the silence got too loud. Now you curled on the couch, his hoodie pulled over your knees, and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. They twisted into shapes: a frowning mouth, a fractured heart, a question mark you couldn’t answer.

Yoongi had a key.

You’d given it to him after the incident, that night he’d found you on the bathroom floor, your fingers curled around nothing, the tiles cold against your cheek. He’d called 119, then held your hand in the ambulance, his grip tighter than the IV needle in your arm. “You don’t get to leave,” he’d hissed, voice raw, as if anger could stitch you back together. “Not like this.”

He’d never used the key without asking. Not even when you vanished for days, when your texts went gray and your curtains stayed shut.

Until now.

The door creaked open on a Thursday afternoon, slicing through the gloom with a blade of hallway light.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The hoodie’s collar muffled your breathing, but your heart—traitor, loudmouth—pounded like a fist against glass.

You were curled into the couch’s sunken cushions, drowning in the hoodie’s oversized sleeves. Light flooded the room, harsh and clinical, and you recoiled like a creature unearthed from soil, yanking the hood over your face. The fabric almost scratched your cheeks, rough with salt from dried tears.

“Jesus,” Yoongi muttered, his voice frayed at the edges.

You listened to him navigate the wreckage, the crunch of chip bags under his boots, the soft clink of glass shards being swept into a dustpan. His shadow stretched across the floorboards, warped and elongated by the naked bulb, and you braced for the inevitable. For the “Look at this mess” or “What the hell happened to you?”

But he said nothing.

Instead, he knelt. The floor groaned under his weight, and you felt the couch dip as he leaned closer. Calloused fingers brushed the hood’s edge, tentative, as if you might dissolve at his touch. You stiffened, but he didn’t stop, tugging the fabric down until the cold air bit your face.

His breath hitched, a sharp, wounded sound.

You knew what he saw. The hollows under your eyes, bruised like overripe fruit. The split lip you’d gnawed raw. The scar on your wrist, pale and jagged, peeking from the hoodie’s cuff like a whispered confession.

“Fuck,” he whispered, the word cracking like ice underfoot.

You waited for the storm. For the guilt-tripping “Do you know how worried I’ve been?” or the frustrated “Why won’t you let me help?” that had driven others away.

But Yoongi wasn’t others.

He stood abruptly, the motion sending a half-empty ramen cup tumbling to the floor. Without a word, he rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

You watched through slitted eyes as he moved, methodical, relentless. He didn’t just clean; he excavated.

The shattered mug you’d hurled at the wall last week aimed at a memory, a voice, your own reflection, was swept into a bin. The mountain of takeout containers, some sprouting fuzzy green colonies, vanished into black trash bags.

When he reached for the pill bottle on your nightstand, you finally spoke.

“Don’t.” Your voice was a rusted blade.

He paused, the orange plastic clutched in his fist. “These expired two months ago.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.” The pills rattled as he dumped them into the trash.

He returned the next day. And the next.

You stopped counting the times he barged in, armed with grocery bags and a stubbornness that outmatched your own. He scrubbed the grime from your windows until sunlight dared to creep back in. He replaced your threadbare towels with ones that smelled like fabric softener and home.

Once, he unearthed a sketchbook from under your bed, pages filled with frenzied scribbles of storm clouds and fractured song lyrics. You watched, throat tight, as he tucked it gently onto the bookshelf, beside his old production manuals.

“For later,” he said, as if later was a promise he could keep.

The fifth night, he found you shivering in a sweat-soaked hoodie, the broken AC leaking icy air like a betrayal.

“Shower,” he said, not a request.

You shook your head, curling tighter into yourself.

He disappeared into the bathroom. The pipes groaned, and soon steam curled under the door, carrying the faintest hint of your lavender body wash. When he returned, his sleeves were damp, hair mussed from scrubbing off your tiles.

“Now,” he said, voice softer now. “Or I’ll drag you there myself.”

You went.

He waited outside the door, humming a half-formed melody under his breath, the same one he’d played on your cracked keyboard last week. You stood under the scalding water until your skin turned raw, until the heat seeped into the cracks of your bones, and wondered when he’d learned the exact temperature you liked.

When you emerged, towel clutched to your chest, he was gone.

But on the couch lay a fresh hoodie, his hoodie, folded neatly beside a steaming bowl of kimchi jjigae. A sticky note clung to the rim:

“Eat. Or I’ll tell Jin you’re alive. He’s been texting me conspiracy theories about you joining a cult.”

For the first time in weeks, your lips twitched.

The feeling terrified you.

Yoongi’s visits became as predictable as the sunset.

He arrived daily at 6:07 PM, his knuckles rapping once against your door, a courtesy, not a request, before letting himself in. The first time, you’d flinched at the sound, burrowing deeper into the couch’s crevices. By the seventh day, you found yourself staring at the clock, counting the minutes until the lock clicked.

He never announced himself. Just slipped in, grocery bags, somtimes rustling with Jin’s aggressively labeled Tupperware -“EAT ME BEFORE I CRY”- scrawled in red Sharpie, and set to work. You cataloged his routines: the way he’d kick off his shoes by the door, always left aligned, laces tucked in, the sigh he’d exhale before tackling the dishes, the precise angle he’d tilt his head when scrubbing stains from your coffee table, as if decoding a particularly stubborn chord progression.

The hazards disappeared first.

You noticed the razor blades gone from your desk drawer, replaced by a box of colored pencils. The vodka and soju bottles under the sink vanished, its spot taken by a six-pack of water. The loose pills in your nightstand? Swapped for melatonin gummies shaped like tiny bears. He moved like a ghost, erasing traces of your decay, and you let him.

His notes appeared in unexpected places:

Taped to the fridge:

“Ate the expired yogurt. You’re welcome. P.S. Jin says hi. He’s 83% sure you’re not dead.”

Slipped under your pillow:

“Hobi made a ‘Sunshine Recovery’ playlist. It’s 90% Disney songs. USB on the desk if you’re brave.”

You found it plugged into your laptop, track one titled “Hakuna Matata (Sad Remix)”

Scrawled on the bathroom mirror in dry-erase marker:

“Shower. Please. You smell like Namjoon’s gym bag.”

You ignored them. Mostly.

But on day twelve, you caught yourself staring at the USB drive, its neon green casing mocking you from across the room. When Yoongi returned the next morning, he found it plugged in, the playlist paused midway through “Let It Go”. Hobi’s voice cracking spectacularly on the high note. He didn’t smile. Just nodded, as if he’d expected nothing less, and left a new note:

“Track 7 is worse. You’ve been warned.”

The breaking point came on a rain-lashed Thursday.

Yoongi found you huddled on the balcony, his hoodie soaked through, hair plastered to your skull. The broken AC had turned your apartment into a sauna, and you’d fled to the icy downpour, chasing numbness.

For once, he broke protocol.

“Up,” he barked, hauling you inside with hands that trembled, from anger or fear, you couldn’t tell. You stumbled, knees buckling, but he caught you, his grip firm around your waist. “Enough.”

He marched you to the bathroom, cranked the shower to near-scalding, and shoved a towel into your chest. “Now.”

You stared at the steam curling under the door. “Go away.”

“Try again.” He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and you realized with dawning horror that he’d brought a book, a weathered copy of Murakami’s 'Kafka on the Shore'. “I’ll be here.”

“I don’t need...”

“You don’t get to decide what you need right now.” He flipped a page, jaw set. “Shower. Or I read aloud. Your choice.”

You showered.

The water burned, but you leaned into it, scrubbing until your skin turned pink. When you emerged, towel clutched like armor, he was gone –again– but a fresh hoodie hung on the door, like last time, still warm from the dryer. His cologne clung to the fabric, a woodsy anchor in the storm.

That night, you found his Murakami book left behind, a receipt marking page 127:

“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions.”

Beneath it, in Yoongi’s jagged script:

“Sandstorms pass. I’ll wait. -Y-

You slept with the book under your pillow, the hoodie’s sleeves wrapped around your fists.

The next morning, the AC was fixed.

You didn’t ask how.

It was Saturday 3 AM when the words claw their way out.

Yoongi’s on the floor, back against the couch, grading demos with his laptop balanced on his knees. The screen’s blue glow sharpens the shadows under his eyes, and you wonder if he’s slept at all this week, if either of you have. You’re drowning in his hoodie again, the third one he’s brought this month, its sleeves frayed from your restless picking. The scars on your arms itch beneath the fabric, a map of failures he’s already memorized.

He knows. Of course he knows.

He was the one who found you that second night, after all, your body limp against the bathroom tiles, fingers curled around an empty pill bottle he still won’t name aloud. He was the one who screamed into the phone for an ambulance, who held your hand in the ER with a grip that left bruises, who slept in a plastic chair for three days until your eyes fluttered open. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he’d hissed then, voice trembling with rage and relief. “Don’t you dare leave me like this.”

But tonight, the silence between you is a live wire.

You trace the oldest scar, a jagged line he’s never asked about. “You saved me,” you say, voice frayed. “That night, the other night....”

His fingers freeze mid-keystroke. The laptop fan whirs louder.

“You never thanked me,” he says finally, not looking up.

“Would you have wanted me to?”

“No.” He closes the laptop with a snap. “I’d have wanted you to fight harder.”

The words sting, but his eyes soften them. He shifts closer, knees brushing yours, and you catch the faint tremor in his hands, the same tremor he’d hidden when he carried you to the ambulance.

“I’m still here,” you whisper, as if it’s a confession.

“Barely.”

“Isn’t that enough?”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and stares at the carpet like it holds the answers. “You think I clean your apartment for fun? That I listen to Hobi’s playlists out of charity?” His laugh is bitter, worn thin. “You’re alive. That’s the baseline. I’m waiting for you to live.”

The honesty hangs between you, raw and unflinching. You want to scream, to tear at the walls, to ask why he bothers, why anyone would. Instead, you blurt, “It’s hard. Wanting to stay.”

“I know.”

“How?”

He hesitates, then rolls up his sleeve. A faded scar runs along his forearm, paler than yours, older. “I was twenty one. Scared. Angry. Thought the world wouldn’t miss another nameless kid from Daegu.” His thumb brushes the mark, a habit you recognize now. “But the world’s full of shitty second chances. This...” he nods at you, at the space between you, “...is mine.”

You reach out, fingertips grazing his wrist. His pulse jumps, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You’re not nameless,” you say.

“Neither are you.”

The clock ticks. Rain taps the window. Somewhere downstairs, a car alarm wails.

Yoongi leans back, eyes heavy but clear. “Complaining yet?”

“About what?”

“That I make it hard to want to die.”

You huff, surprised. “Asshole.”

“Good.” He reopens his laptop, the glow cutting through the dark. “Means you’re still here to insult me.”

Timeskip

Winter arrived with teeth, biting through Seoul’s streets and frosting the windows of Yoongi’s studio. Inside, warmth pooled under the glow of desk lamps, the air thick with the burnt-caramel scent of overbrewed coffee and the faint hum of a space heater fighting valiantly against the chill. You sat cross-legged on the floor, his hoodie swallowing your frame, its sleeves rolled haphazardly to your elbows. A notebook lay sprawled in your lap, pages crammed with lyrics scratched out and rewritten, margins filled with doodles of storm clouds and half-melted snowmen.

Yoongi was at his desk, scowling at a tracklist as if it had personally offended him. The studio was cluttered in its usual organized chaos, a framed photo of Bangtan’s debut days tilted precariously near his monitors, a wilting succulent Jungkook had gifted him –“Hyung, it’s indestructible—like you!”– clinging to life by the window. His fingers tapped absently against a coffee mug, the one you’d painted for him last month, a lopsided heart that read “World’s Okayest Producer.”

You’d come here often lately. Not because he asked, but because the silence between you had shifted, no longer heavy, but companionable. A refuge.

“Your hoodie,” he said suddenly, not looking up.

You paused, pen hovering over a line about fractured constellations. “Yours,” you corrected, tugging the fabric tighter. It smelled like him now, cedarwood and the faint smell of coffee.

“Keep it.” His voice was casual, but his shoulders tensed, the way they did when he was avoiding eye contact. “Looks better on you anyway.”

You snorted. “Liar. I’ve seen your closet.”

“Exactly. I need an intervention.” He spun in his chair, finally facing you, and froze.

A strand of hair had escaped your ponytail, clinging to your temple. You went to tuck it back, but he was already moving, slow, deliberate, like approaching a skittish animal. His calloused fingers brushed your skin, tucking the stray lock behind your ear. His thumb lingered, tracing the curve of your forehead, and you didn’t flinch. Didn’t dare breathe.

The studio’s hum faded, the whirring computer, the heater’s rattle, the distant traffic, until all that remained was the click of his chair rolling closer, the hitch in his throat as he leaned in.

His lips pressed against your forehead, a whisper of warmth, fleeting but searing. You closed your eyes, memorizing the weight of his hand cradling your jaw, the way his breath shuddered like he’d been holding it for years.

“Don’t make me write a ballad about this,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His ears were pink, but his voice held its usual gruffness. “Taehyung would never let me live it down.”

You laughed, shaky and breathless. “Would it be a good ballad?”

“The best.” His thumb brushed your cheekbone, a silent confession. “But you’re not ready for my masterpiece.”

Outside, snow began to fall, dusting the city in quiet. Inside, the space heater sputtered, and the succulent’s last leaf trembled in the draft. But here, in this cluttered corner of the world, you felt it, the tectonic shift, the faultline of before and after.

Yoongi returned to his desk, but his knee stayed pressed against yours, a steady anchor. You picked up your pen, the lyrics suddenly flowing easier, and wondered if this was what hope tasted like, bitter coffee, cedarwood, and the ghost of a kiss still burning on your skin.

Epilogue

Recovery isn’t linear.

Some days, the darkness still slips through the cracks. It pools in the corners of your apartment, whispers through the vents, and stains the edges of your thoughts. But now, when the weight threatens to suffocate you, you reach for your phone.

“Yoongs...”

“Be there in 10.”

He always is.

One morning, long after the snow has thawed, you find him at your kitchen table. Dawn bleeds through the curtains, painting the room in watercolor grays. Yoongi’s slumped over his laptop, cheek pressed to the keyboard, glasses askew. The screen casts a faint glow on his face, illuminating the track title: DAWN_CHORUS_FINAL.mp3.

You linger in the doorway, memorizing the scene. The empty coffee mugs, yours with chipmunk doodles, his plain black, clustered like survivors of a long night. The crumpled sticky notes littering the table-

“Bridge needs more bass,”

“Lyrics too vague?”

-in his jagged handwriting. The USB drive Hobi gifted you months ago, now plugged into his laptop, its neon green casing glowing like a tiny beacon.

His hoodie hangs on the back of your chair, threadbare and familiar. You slip it on, the fabric warm from the radiator he’d insisted on installing last month, and pad closer.

He looks younger in sleep, the crease between his brows softened, lips slightly parted. A strand of hair falls over his forehead, and you resist the urge to brush it back. Instead, you drape his spare hoodie, yours now, really, over his shoulders. He stirs, murmurs something unintelligible “…key change…”, and sinks deeper into sleep.

The laptop screen flickers. You glance at the track, curiosity overriding guilt. The waveform pulses gently, and you hit play.

His voice spills out first, low and rasping, layered over a piano melody you recognize, the one he’d hummed outside your bathroom door. Then your voice joins, lifted from old voicemails and late-night rants, stitched into harmonies you didn’t know you could make. Lyrics you’d scribbled in his margins weave through the arrangement:

“The dawn is just a chorus of all the nights we survived.”

Your eyes burn.

In the corner, the succulent Jungkook once called 'indestructible' thrives in its new pot, now at your place, its leaves plump and green. Beside it, the Murakami book lies open to page 127, a fresh note tucked into the crease:

“Sandstorm’s passing.Coffee’s on me today. -Y-”

You start the coffee, just the way he likes it, black, with a pinch of salt he’d begrudgingly admitted cuts the bitterness. As the machine gurgles to life, you open the fridge. Jin’s latest meal-prep containers stare back, labeled “RECOVERY RAMEN - NOW WITH 200% MORE HOPE!” in aggressively cheerful font.

Outside, the city stirs. A delivery truck rumbles past, and the first birdsong trills through the cracked window. Yoongi shifts, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder. You catch it before it falls, your fingers brushing the scar on his forearm, the one he’d shown you that night, the one that mirrors yours.

He doesn’t wake.

You pour two coffees, set one beside his laptop, and sip yours slowly. The bitterness lingers, but so does the sweetness.

When he finally stirs, blinking blearily at the dawn, you nod to the track. “You finished it.”

He grunts, reaching for his mug. “We did.”

“Cheesy.”

“Blame Hobi. He insisted on the harmonies.” He takes a sip, hides a smile in the rim. “You hate it?”

You press replay. The chorus swells, your voices tangled now, inseparable. “It’s tolerable.”

“High praise.”

Chuckles. Sunlight fractures through the window, painting his face in gold. The coffee steam curls between you, and for a moment, the world holds its breath.

Yoongi breaks it first. “Next track’s on you.”

“What’s it called?”

“Dusk Theory.” He smirks at your raised brow. “... gotta have a sequel.”

You throw a pen at him. He ducks, laughing, and the dawn blooms brighter.

END.

[flightoftheconcorde]

Cool Robot Fact! Did you know that if a robot has an HDMI port, you can hook it up to a monitor and see their thoughts?

You can see all kinds of awesome things like:

- Rotating Cube (VERY processor heavy)

- 3D Teapot with a countable amount of polygons

- The cessation of all things!

- Waveforms (Try pushing some buttons or turning some dials, you might be able to make it move)

- Hi-res images of wildlife

- The bouncing DVD logo (No, it WON'T touch the corners... Or will it?)

Ask your local robot if you can have a look!

[adafruit]

🎄💾🗓️ Day 18: Retrocomputing Advent Calendar - Commodore 64🎄💾🗓️

The Commodore 64, released in 1982, is one of the ones we keep hearing got many people their start in their own computing history. Powered by a MOS Technology 6510 processor at 1.02 MHz and featuring 64 KB of RAM, it became the best-selling single computer model of all time, with an estimated 12.5–17 million units sold. Its graphics were driven by the VIC-II chip, capable of 16 colors, hardware sprites, and smooth scrolling, while the SID (Sound Interface Device) chip delivered advanced audio, supporting three voices with waveforms and filters, making it a lot of fun for gaming and music.

Featured a built-in BASIC interpreter, allowing users to write their own programs out-of-the-box. The C64’s affordability, large software library, lots of games, productivity, and educational applications made it a household name. It connected to TVs as monitors and supported peripherals like the 1541 floppy disk drive, datasette, and various joysticks. With over 10,000 commercial software titles and a thriving homebrew scene, the C64 helped define a generation of computer enthusiasts.

Its impact on gaming was gigantic, iconic titles like The Last Ninja, Maniac Mansion, and Impossible Mission. The C64 also inspired a demoscene, where programmers pushed its hardware for visual and audio effects. The Commodore 64 remains a symbol of computing for the masses and creative innovation, still loved by retrocomputing fans today.

Check out the National Museum of American History, and Wikipedia. https://americanhistory.si.edu/collections/object/nmah_334636 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Commodore_64

And…! An excellent story from Jepler -

== While I started on the VIC 20, the Commodore 64 was my computer for a lot longer. Its SID sound chip was a headline feature, and many of my memories of it center around music. Starting with Ultima III, each game in the series had a different soundtrack for each environment (though each one was on a pretty short loop, it probably drove my folks nuts when I would play for hours). There were music editors floating around, so I tried my hand at arranging music for its 3 independent voices, though I can't say I was any good or that I have any of the music now. You could also download "SID tunes" on the local BBSes, where people with hopefully a bit more skill had arranged everything from classical to Beatles to 80s music.

Folks are still creating cool new music on the Commodore 64. One current creator that I like a great deal is Linus Åkesson. Two videos from 2024 using the Commodore 64 that really impressed me were were a "Making 8-bit Music From Scratch at the Commodore 64 BASIC Prompt", a live coding session (http://www.linusakesson.net/programming/music-from-scratch/index.php) and Bach Forever (http://www.linusakesson.net/scene/bach-forever/index.php) a piece played by Åkesson on two Commodore 64s.

Like so many things, you can also recreate the experience online. Here's the overworld music for Ultima III: https://deepsid.chordian.net/?file=/MUSICIANS/A/Arnold_Kenneth/Ultima_III-Exodus.sid&subtune=1 -- the site has hundreds or thousands of other SIDs available to play right in the browser.

Have first computer memories? Post’em up in the comments, or post yours on socialz’ and tag them #firstcomputer #retrocomputing – See you back here tomorrow!

[commodorez]

Recently, someone was asking me about dedicated waveform monitors for verifying video signals. In a pinch, if you don't have a waveform monitor (like me), you can use an oscilloscope to the same end. Here's my Tektronix 2445B showing a simplified set of 75% NTSC color bars. Trigger the scope on the falling edge of the back porch within the signal, and adjust scale and timebase from there.

I'd love to find a calibrated rack mount set of 1720 and 1730 models from Tektronix, as they're a quintessential pair of dedicated waveform/vectorscopes for broadcast signal analysis from the good ol' days.

[buckingham-ashtray]

ANOTHER reversed heart monitor.

This time FLATLINED.

WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING

seriously look at this

we can clearly see when smith let go of sherlock he did NOT flatline at all:

and when john checked the saline bag it was visibly still going as well:

THEN right after “what kind of a doctor are you” the heart rate waveform became a line going from left to right stamping out the patterns???

sorry about the shite quality I can’t see it either let’s try again:

after that while the monitor’s beeping was still audible there were nothing but lines on the screen:

Tell me I’m not seeing things.

[whumpetywhumpwhump]

*slams hands on table*

HELLO FELLOW MEDWHUMP/SICKFIC ENJOYER.

Got a prompt for ya. Apologies if it's something you've already done. ^^;

Intubated whumpee waking up from either a coma or surgery, fighting the breathing tube, and caretaker attempting to calm them down.

GO. 💜

Caretaker sits at Whumpee's bedside, brow furrowed with unease as they stroke Whumpee's sweat damp hair. A few days ago now, Whumpee underwent major surgery, and since then they've been here, in the ICU, intubated and sedated. Caretaker wonders whether they're even aware of anything that's happened.

For a while, Caretaker watches the regular condensation misting the inside of the breathing tube, every so often glancing over at the monitor denoting Whumpee's condition. The even peaks and troughs of the EKG are reassuring to a certain extent, as are the waveforms that show Whumpee's breathing pattern, but when paired with how lifeless Whumpee looks in the bed, hooked up to so many wires and tubes, it's hard to feel comforted.

As Caretaker brushes back a strand of hair from Whumpee's forehead, though, something changes. Whumpee's brow knits in discomfort, and when Caretaker reaches for Whumpee's hand, they feel their fingers twitching beneath the weight of the sedation. It was only a matter of time. They started lowering the sedation this morning.

"Whumpee? Hey, it's only me. You're okay. Just relax, sweetheart."

The peaks and troughs on the EKG grow more frequent, a few alarms blaring every so often. Whumpee shifts, weakly lifting a trembling hand as if to move it towards their throat, but Caretaker takes it instead, lowering it gently back towards the sheets and shushing Whumpee softly.

"Easy... easy, Whumpee. I'm here. I'm here."

At last, Whumpee fights hard enough to open their eyes, albeit half-mast. The expression within them is dulled by the cocktail of medications they're on, but even so, the fear shines through the exhaustion. Their eyes track across Caretaker's face, searching desperately for explanation.

Caretaker shuffles forward in their chair, gripping Whumpee's hand, thumb drifting across the back of it, while their other hand continues to stroke Whumpee's hair in what they hope is a reassuring motion.

"Hey, it's okay. You've had surgery, alright? Pretty major surgery. You've been asleep for a couple of days while they monitored you, but you're waking up now, and you're doing so well."

Whumpee's throat bobs, and as they blink, wincing slightly, Caretaker can tell they're uncomfortable. It's no surprise when they weakly try to lift that isn't restrained to their throat yet again, heart rate still elevated.

The alarming of the monitor, though, seems to have attracted the attention of a nurse. She approaches, smiling faintly, and watches the screen for a few seconds before moving to Whumpee's side, squeezing their shoulder.

"Whumpee? I'm one of your nurses, okay? I'm here to make sure you're as comfortable as possible. Right now, the tube is helping you breathe properly, because you've been quite sick and weren't able to manage your airway well. I promise we'll take it out as soon as possible."

Whumpee closes their eyes, nostrils flaring.

Caretaker turns to the nurse.

"Is everything okay?"

"It's all as expected- they're bucking the tube a little, but that's normal when they're just starting to wake up. We can give them some muscle relaxants to make things easier in the meantime, and hopefully soon we'll be able to extubate- to take the tube out."

Caretaker sighs with relief as the nurse gives them a small smile, moving from the room to fetch the medications. They move closer to Whumpee again, still rhythmically stroking their hair.

"Hear that, Whumpee? Everything's going as expected. You're doing so well. I know you must be uncomfortable right now, but things'll feel better soon, I promise. Just try to relax."

Whumpee nods ever so slightly, a small tear escaping from beneath closed eyelids and snaking its way down their cheek. Caretaker wipes it away, careful not to disturb the sticky patches holding the tube in place.

"I know, sweetheart, I know." They squeeze Whumpee's hand, tears welling in their own eyes when Whumpee squeezes back. "I'm right here with you. You're okay."

And slowly but surely, the rapid beeping of the monitors begins to slow again.

[starscreams-scrussy]

Ratchet having an EKG-like design (QRS only though and only in some continuities) on him implies… so many possibilities.

Do cybertronians have rhythmic electrical impulses that when mapped out, look similar to our EKGs??

If so, is it their equivalent of a heart? or something else?

Or did he just go “you know what human ambulances have that right” and add it on so he blends in (in the continuities where he’s on Earth)

Imagine he and June Darby having a discussion on monitoring and waveforms and how cybertronian and human medicine work

[enzaelectric]

Common Electrical Issues That a High-Quality Current Transformer Can Prevent

In today’s fast-paced industrial world, electrical reliability is more crucial than ever. A small error in current measurement can lead to serious system failures, downtime, and costly repairs. This is where high-quality current transformers (CTs) make a huge difference. But what exactly can a superior CT prevent? Let’s dive in.

What Is a Current Transformer?

A current transformer (CT) is an essential device used to measure alternating current (AC) by producing a scaled-down, manageable current for meters, relays, and other instruments. It enables safe monitoring and accurate metering in high-voltage environments, protecting both equipment and personnel.

Common Electrical Problems a High-Quality CT Can Prevent

1. Overloading and Equipment Failure

Problem: Without accurate current measurement, systems can easily become overloaded, causing motors, transformers, and cables to overheat.

How a CT Helps: A precision CT ensures real-time, reliable current monitoring. It detects overcurrent conditions immediately, allowing protective relays to trip and prevent expensive equipment damage.

2. Inaccurate Energy Billing

Problem: Incorrect current readings can lead to wrong billing, causing businesses to either overpay for energy or face disputes with utilities.

How a CT Helps: High-accuracy CTs provide precise energy data for billing and cost allocation, especially critical in commercial complexes, factories, and power plants.

3. Protection Relay Malfunction

Problem: If a CT delivers incorrect signals, protection relays may not operate during faults, leading to extended damage and system blackouts.

How a CT Helps: Reliable CTs ensure protection relays receive the correct fault current levels, enabling fast and accurate circuit isolation.

4. Short Circuits Going Undetected

Problem: A minor fault can escalate into a full-blown short circuit if the protection system doesn’t detect it early.

How a CT Helps: Quality CTs capture even small fault currents, triggering alarms or shutdowns before damage spirals out of control.

5. Phase Imbalance Issues

Problem: Imbalanced phases cause excessive heating, motor inefficiency, and damage to sensitive equipment.

How a CT Helps: High-precision CTs monitor each phase accurately, enabling detection of phase unbalance conditions early and preventing system inefficiencies.

6. Harmonic Distortions and Power Quality Problems

Problem: Harmonic distortions interfere with the performance of sensitive equipment and reduce the overall power quality.

How a CT Helps: Specialized CTs can detect abnormal waveform distortions, enabling corrective action through harmonic filtering or load balancing.

Why Invest in a High-Quality Current Transformer?

Accuracy: Achieve metering-class precision essential for both billing and protection. Durability: Longer lifespan even in harsh industrial environments. Safety: Better insulation, thermal stability, and overload capacity. Compliance: Meets international standards like IEC and ANSI.

How Enza Electric Ensures CT Excellence

At Enza Electric, we specialize in manufacturing current transformers built with precision, reliability, and global standards compliance. Whether you need CTs for commercial metering, industrial protection, or utility-scale power distribution, our solutions guarantee unmatched performance.

Customizable options for various ratings High dielectric strength for safety Long service life even in extreme conditions

Explore our Current Transformer Range

Final Thoughts

A high-quality current transformer isn’t just a tool — it’s a first line of defense for your electrical system. Investing in precision-engineered CTs prevents common electrical issues, boosts system longevity, ensures accurate billing, and improves overall operational safety.

If you’re serious about protecting your infrastructure and optimizing performance, choosing Enza Electric’s current transformers is a smart move.

[lixii00]

Empire's Siren

Lucious Lyon x f!reader

Word Count: 2.9K

Warnings:-DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18! explicit smut, size kink? (he's huge ) sexual banter & sexual , pet names, slight jealousy/possessiveness, semi-public horniness (some sexy pool action), praise, mentions of f!masturbation, dirty talk (we love filthy Lucious ), fingering, implied sex.

summary: Ambitious (Y/N) becomes assistant to music mogul Lucious Lyon, navigating power plays and undeniable attraction at Empire Entertainment. Intense sexual tension simmers beneath their professional facade, culminating in a forbidden dance of desire where the lines between boss and subordinate blur, and passion threatens to consume them both.

The glass doors of Empire Entertainment hissed open, and (Y/N) stepped into the polished lobby, the cacophony of New York fading behind her. She clutched her portfolio, the leather cool against her sweaty palms. Today was the day. Assistant to Lucious Lyon. It still sounded surreal.

(Y/N) was twenty-six, a recent MBA graduate with a sharp mind and a fire in her belly. She’d always been drawn to the music industry, and Empire was the pinnacle. Lucious Lyon was a legend, a titan, a lyrical genius who’d built an empire from the ground up. And, admittedly, she found him devastatingly attractive. The way he moved, the commanding presence, the gravelly voice that sounded like velvet over steel – it was magnetic.

The elevator whisked her to the executive floor. As she approached his office, the low thrum of bass vibrated through the walls. A new track, probably. She took a deep breath and straightened her skirt. 

The door was ajar. She knocked softly. “Mr. Lyon?”

A voice, deep and resonant, rumbled from within. “Come in.”

Lucious was sitting at his expansive desk, surrounded by monitors displaying waveforms and lyrics. He was even more imposing in person. His dark eyes, sharp and intelligent, flicked up to meet hers.

“Ms. (Y/LN), right? Welcome to the jungle.” He leaned back, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Hope you’re ready to work.”

The next few weeks were a blur of meetings, calls, and paperwork. (Y/N) was constantly on her toes, anticipating Lucious's needs, managing his schedule, and learning the intricate workings of Empire. He was demanding, expecting perfection, but he also possessed a shrewd wit and a surprising generosity.

He’d often call her into his office just to bounce ideas off her, seeking her opinion on everything from album art to marketing strategies. Their conversations would often veer off track, touching on everything from their favorite artists to the state of the music industry. (Y/N) found herself drawn to his intelligence, his passion, and the vulnerability that occasionally peeked through his hardened exterior.

The sexual tension was palpable. It was in the way he’d hold her gaze a beat too long, the subtle brush of his hand against hers when he handed her a file, the low, teasing comments he’d murmur under his breath.

One evening, as (Y/N) was organizing his schedule for a charity gala, Lucious leaned back in his chair, studying her. “You know, (Y/N),” he said, his voice a low rumble, “you have a way of making even the most mundane tasks…interesting.”

(Y/N)’s heart skipped a beat. She met his gaze, a nervous smile playing on her lips. “Is that a compliment, Mr. Lyon?”

He chuckled, a deep, resonant sound. “Take it any way you want, baby girl.”

He called her "baby girl" often. It shouldn't have thrilled her as much as it did.

The gala was a whirlwind of flashing lights, champagne, and forced smiles. (Y/N) stayed close to Lucious, navigating the crowded ballroom, deflecting unwanted attention, and ensuring everything ran smoothly.

Later, as the party began to wind down, they found themselves by the pool, the city lights twinkling like scattered diamonds. Lucious had removed his jacket and loosened his tie, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of his chest.

He took a sip of his whiskey. “Tired, (Y/N)?”

“A little,” she admitted, feeling the weight of the evening settle on her shoulders.

He stepped closer, his presence radiating heat. “You did good tonight. Real good.” He reached out, his fingers tracing the curve of her jaw. “You’re a natural, baby girl. You know that?”

Her breath caught in her throat. The proximity was intoxicating. She could feel his gaze burning into her, stripping away her composure.

Suddenly, a reporter approached, camera flashing. Lucious immediately straightened, his expression hardening. He pulled away from (Y/N), the moment broken.

Jealousy, a sharp and unfamiliar pang, stabbed through her. She knew he was a public figure, but seeing him compartmentalize her, dismiss her so easily in front of others, stung.

Back in the office, the tension only amplified. Lucious seemed to be testing her, pushing her buttons, his comments laced with double entendres.

One afternoon, he was working on a new track, a raw, gritty anthem about power and desire. He called (Y/N) in to get her opinion.

The lyrics were explicit, the beat pulsing with a primal energy. As Lucious rapped, his voice dripping with sensuality, (Y/N) felt a flush creep up her neck. The words were aimed at her, she knew it.

“She walks in the room, head held high, Eyes like fire, burning in the sky. She thinks she can handle the heat, the game, But I’m about to whisper her goddamn name…

…And show her what it means to be owned, consumed, By a king who knows exactly what he’ll do…”

He stopped, his gaze locking with hers. “What do you think, (Y/N)? Does it resonate?”

She swallowed, her throat dry. “It’s…powerful, Mr. Lyon.”

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “Powerful enough to make you wet, baby girl?”

She gasped, her cheeks burning. He had no right to speak to her like that. But a part of her, a secret, shameful part, thrilled at his audacity.

(Y/N) started avoiding him. She made excuses to be out of the office, burying herself in work, desperate to regain control. But Lucious wouldn’t let her escape. He’d find her in the conference room, corner her by the water cooler, his presence a constant reminder of the simmering desire between them.

One evening, she was working late, the only light in the office coming from her computer screen. She was exhausted, frustrated, and desperately horny. The memory of Lucious’s lyrics, his voice, his gaze, kept replaying in her mind.

She closed her laptop, her body aching with need. She ran a hand down her body, over her breasts, down past her stomach. She imagined Lucious's hands there, his long fingers spreading her open, exploring her.

She reached for the vibrator in her purse…

The door clicked open.

Lucious stood there, silhouetted against the hallway light. His eyes raked over her, taking in her disheveled appearance, the flush on her cheeks.

“Working late, (Y/N)?” His voice was dangerously low.

She quickly turned away, embarrassed. “Just finishing up some things.”

He stepped into the office, closing the door behind him. The click echoed in the silence. He walked towards her, his movements deliberate, predatory.

“Don’t lie to me, baby girl,” he murmured, his voice husky. “I can smell your arousal from across the room.”

He reached out, grabbing her hand. His touch sent a jolt of electricity through her. His hands were large, calloused, infinitely capable.

He pulled her closer, his body pressing against hers. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the hardness pressing against her thigh.

“Tell me what you were thinking about,” he whispered, his lips grazing her ear. “Tell me what you want.”

(Y/N) froze, her mind racing. She knew she should stop this. She knew it was wrong. He was her boss, decades older than her. 

But God, she wanted him.

“I…” she stammered, her voice barely a whisper.

He tightened his grip on her hand, his gaze intense. “Tell me, (Y/N). Tell me what your body craves.”

She closed her eyes, surrendering to the desire that had been building between them for weeks.

“You,” she whispered, the word barely audible. “I want you.”

A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. He lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust. “Now, let's see if you can handle what you asked for."

He kissed her then, a deep, possessive kiss that stole her breath away. His tongue plunged into her mouth, exploring every corner, claiming her as his own. She moaned softly, surrendering to the pleasure.

He broke the kiss, his breath ragged. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, (Y/N).” He trailed kisses down her neck, his teeth nipping at her skin. “A long goddamn time.”

He lifted her onto his desk, his hands roaming over her body, exploring her curves, teasing her nipples through her blouse. She arched her back, moaning, her body begging for release.

He unbuttoned her blouse, his gaze burning into her as he revealed her lacy bra. He reached out, his fingers tracing the outline of her breasts, teasing her nipples until they were hard and erect.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust. “You are so goddamn beautiful.”

He leaned in, sucking one nipple through the lace, his tongue teasing and tormenting her until she cried out. He moved to the other breast, repeating the torture until she was writhing on the desk, begging for more.

He pulled back, his eyes dark with desire. He reached down, unzipping her skirt, his fingers brushing against her skin. She gasped, her body trembling with anticipation.

He slid her skirt down her legs, revealing her silk panties. He reached down, his fingers tracing the curve of her hips, teasing the edge of her panties.

“You’re wet, baby girl,” he whispered, his voice husky. “So wet for me.”

He slipped his fingers beneath the elastic, parting her lips, exploring her with slow, deliberate strokes. She moaned, her body arching against his touch. She was so sensitive, so close to the edge.

He continued to tease her, his fingers working their magic until she was on the verge of orgasm. She cried out, her body shaking with pleasure.

He stopped suddenly, his eyes burning into hers. “Not yet,” he murmured. “Not until I’m inside you.”

He stepped back, unbuckling his belt, his gaze never leaving hers. He pulled out his cock, his size making her gasp, her mind reeling. It was thick, long, and throbbing with desire.

He reached for her again, guiding her hand to his cock. She wrapped her fingers around him, feeling the heat radiating from him, the pulsing of his veins.

“You like that, baby girl?” he murmured, his voice thick with lust.

She nodded, her throat dry.

He guided her hand up and down, his cock growing harder with each stroke. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the pleasure.

He pulled her hand away, his eyes burning into hers. He reached for her panties, tearing them off in one swift motion. He lifted her legs, placing them on his shoulders.

He positioned himself between her legs, his cock throbbing against her entrance. He paused, his eyes searching hers.

“Ready, (Y/N)?” he murmured.

She nodded, her body trembling with anticipation.

He pushed into her, slowly, deliberately, filling her with his size. She gasped, her body arching against his.

He continued to push deeper, until he was completely inside her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, holding him tight.

He began to move, slowly at first, then faster and faster. She moaned, her body writhing against his.

He gripped her hips, driving into her with a primal force. She cried out, her body shaking with pleasure.

He continued to fuck her, harder and harder, until she was on the verge of orgasm. She cried out his name, her body convulsing with pleasure.

He thrust into her one last time, his body exploding with release. He collapsed on top of her, his breath ragged.

They lay there for a long moment, tangled together, their bodies slick with sweat.

Finally, he pulled back, his eyes searching hers.

“You okay, (Y/N)?” he murmured.

She nodded, her body still trembling.

He smiled, a slow, satisfied smile.

“Good girl,” he said. “You were amazing.”

He kissed her again, a soft, tender kiss.

“But this doesn't change anything,” he said, pulling away. “This stays between us. Understand?”

She nodded, her heart sinking. She knew he was right. This was a mistake.

But God, it was a beautiful mistake.

The following days were fraught with a new kind of tension. The air crackled with unspoken desires, with the memory of their forbidden encounter. (Y/N) was torn between wanting to run and wanting to fall into his arms again. Lucious, meanwhile, seemed to revel in the power he held over her, his gaze lingering, his touch electric, always just a hair's breadth away from escalating. The slow burn was agonizing, and she knew, deep down, that this couldn't last. Something had to break and soon.

A/n my first empire story!

© 𝐓𝐎𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘 2024 : all designs made are original, the names are also original. they can only be used under rightful credits given to owner. for both light and dark mode use. they can used in anything as long as it’s on tumblr. all rights reserved

[pokemoncenter]

Anon with the recently evolved Umbreon and Espeon from a while back! You were right I think. It took a while, but eventually they seemed to be more comfortable and recognise each other. The Umbreon especially needed to be taught to be more gentle, I think she might have been unaware(?) of the new type advantage she has. This part is taking a lot of time. But anyways! They're getting along fine now, and their trainers are already coming up with possible dream teams for double battles and ways to cover each other's type weaknesses. Thanks for your advice :)

I am happy to have helped.

As for the type advantage- Yes, that is likely. Dark-types are themselves psychic, you see. They emit what is best described as a psychic counter-wave, nullifying the waveforms of psychic power around them. This is how they maintain a total immunity to both psychokinesis and telepathy- A constant emission of counter waves that negate the psychic waves.

Espeon will tend to use psychic powers to soften blows or enhance its own play, and so is overestimating itself in relation to the Umbreon's abilities. Similarly, the Umbreon would be very much unaware of such things.

As long as you monitor them, they will soon become accustomed to each other and need less watching.