#I just think there's. problems. with the pacing

[enhaflixer]

Touché - DATING YOU TO DISTRACT YOU BUT GETS DISTRACTED FIRST

Academic Rival!Jake x f!Reader (Smut, Crack, Fluff) MDNI 18+ ENHA HARD HOURS

Jake Sim has one job—beat you in the race for the Harrison Fellowship. His strategy? Get close. Get under your skin. Get you too distracted to focus. His method? Kissing you stupid. Pressing you against walls. Finding out exactly how far he can push before you snap. The problem? You like to push back. Now, between tangled sheets, heated arguments, and “just one more time” turning into every damn night, Jake’s got a new problem. He’s not thinking about winning anymore. He’s thinking about you. 💔 “This was supposed to be a game. So why do I feel like I’m the one getting played?”

-

You drum your fingers against the desk, watching Professor Martinez pace at the front of the lecture hall. The midterm papers are stacked neatly in his arms, and you can practically feel the anxiety radiating off the two hundred students packed into the room.

But you're not anxious. Not really.

You know exactly what score awaits you—the same score you've received on every major assessment since freshman year: the highest in the class.

Your eyes drift across the lecture hall to where Jake Sim sits, surrounded by his usual entourage. Even now, minutes before receiving a grade that could make or break their GPA, they're laughing at something he's said. The sound of his rich laughter carries across the room, drawing more than a few admiring glances.

Jake Sim. Campus golden boy. The kind of person who walks into a room and immediately owns it. The kind of student professors mention in other classes. The kind of face that appears on university brochures—which it literally does, as he's been the unofficial "face" of the university's marketing materials since sophomore year.

He's also the only person who's ever come close to beating your scores.

"Before I hand these back," Professor Martinez says, silencing the murmurs, "I want to discuss the grade distribution."

He clicks to display a graph on the projector screen. The curve looks normal enough, with a significant peak around the B-range.

"As you can see, the class average was 78.4," he continues. "We had a standard deviation of approximately 12 points. However—" he pauses, adjusting his glasses, "—we also had two outliers."

The next slide shows the same curve with two dots far to the right of the main distribution. Your throat tightens with a familiar tension.

Jake's eyes meet yours across the lecture hall. His expression is casual, but you recognize the intensity in his gaze. This is what it's always been like between you two: a silent acknowledgment of the competition that's defined your college experience.

"Our top two scores," Professor Martinez announces, "were separated by only half a point."

The room stills. This is closer than usual.

You see Jake sit up straighter, his perfectly coiffed hair catching the light as he leans forward. Even from across the room, you can see the flash of white teeth as he grins confidently. His friends nudge him, already assuming victory.

"Mr. Sim scored an impressive 98.2," Professor Martinez says, and a ripple of impressed murmurs spreads through the lecture hall.

Jake's golden-boy smile widens as he accepts congratulatory shoulder pats from his friends. He hasn't looked at you yet, clearly believing he's finally done it—finally beaten you.

"And Ms. L/N—" Professor Martinez pauses, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips, "—scored a 98.7."

The half-point difference might as well be a chasm.

Jake's smile freezes in place, his dark eyes immediately seeking yours as the realization hits him. He's lost. Again. By the slimmest of margins.

You allow yourself a small, satisfied smile before looking down at your notebook, pretending to be humble about your victory. But inside, you're savoring the moment. It never gets old, watching the golden boy settle for silver.

After class, you take your time gathering your materials, accepting quiet congratulations from a few classmates. Unlike Jake, you don't have an entourage. You have acquaintances, study partners occasionally, but your focus has always been on achievement rather than popularity.

As you make your way up the steps of the lecture hall, you sense someone behind you. You don't need to turn to know who it is—you can tell from the expensive cologne and the sudden hushed whispers of nearby students watching the university's academic rivals in proximity.

"Congratulations," Jake says, falling into step beside you as you exit into the hallway. His voice carries none of the warmth it does when he's with his friends. "Half a point. Must be nice."

"It is," you reply coolly, clutching your midterm paper with its red 98.7% circled at the top. "Maybe next time."

Jake stops walking, forcing you to stop too unless you want to seem like you're fleeing. You turn to face him, noting the way his dark hair falls perfectly across his forehead despite the late afternoon humidity that has your own hair frizzing at the edges.

"There's always the final," he says, his voice lowering into something almost like a threat. "And the Harrison Fellowship application is due next month. Midterms are just one battle."

You raise an eyebrow. "A battle you lost."

Something flashes in his eyes—not anger exactly, but frustration mingled with something else. Challenge, perhaps. Determination.

"This isn't over," he says, his voice carrying just enough for a few passing students to slow down, sensing drama between the two top students.

"Never said it was," you reply with a sweet smile, hugging your perfect test paper to your chest.

Jake maintains eye contact for a moment longer than comfortable, then breaks into the easy, charismatic smile that's plastered across half the campus publications. The sudden shift is disorienting, his intensity disappearing behind his golden-boy mask so quickly you almost doubt it was ever there.

"See you in Advanced Statistical Methods tomorrow," he says cheerfully, as if your competition is just friendly banter. "Front row as usual?"

"Where else?" you respond, puzzled by his sudden change in demeanor.

He winks—actually winks—before turning to join his waiting friends, who immediately surround him like a protective bubble of popularity. You watch him go, telling yourself the flutter in your stomach is just the satisfaction of victory, not a reaction to those dark eyes or that practiced wink.

One of Jake's friends says something that makes the whole group laugh, and you catch Jake glancing back at you before joining in. Something about his expression makes you uneasy, like he's not quite done with this interaction.

You shake off the feeling and head toward the library. The Harrison Fellowship application won't write itself, and you'll need to maintain your perfect GPA if you want to beat Jake Sim for that too.

What you don't realize, as you push through the heavy library doors, is that Jake is watching you go, his mind already formulating a plan that has nothing to do with studying—and everything to do with making sure you don't beat him again.

-

Jake closes his apartment door behind him and leans against it, loosening his tie with a frustrated jerk. The congratulatory words from his friends still ring hollow in his ears. Second place. Again.

"Damn it," he mutters, tossing his backpack onto the couch. His roommate looks up from his laptop, eyebrows raised.

"Let me guess. You didn't beat her again?"

Jake shoots him a glare that would silence anyone else, but Ethan has been his best friend since orientation week. He's immune.

"Half a point," Jake says, collapsing into an armchair. "Half a freaking point."

Ethan whistles. "That's close, though. Closest you've gotten."

"Close doesn't get me the Harrison Fellowship," Jake snaps, running his hands through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up for the first time all day. "Close doesn't get me into Stanford. Close is just another word for failure."

"Dramatic much?" Ethan chuckles, turning back to his computer.

But Jake isn't listening anymore. He's staring at the ceiling, where he's pinned his vision board—Stanford acceptance letter (photoshopped, for now), Harrison Fellowship certificate (also photoshopped), summer internship offer from Goldman Sachs (real, but he turned it down for a research position), and a cutout from last semester's dean's list (where your name appeared just above his).

A slow smile spreads across his face as an idea forms.

"I need to change tactics," he says, sitting up straight.

Ethan glances over. "What do you mean?"

Jake jumps up and begins pacing, energy suddenly radiating from him. "I've been trying to beat her on a level playing field, but that's clearly not working."

"So what, you're going to cheat?" Ethan frowns.

"No, nothing like that," Jake says, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm going to... distract."

Ethan closes his laptop, now fully invested in the conversation. "Distract how?"

Jake's smile grows wider, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "I'm going to ask her out."

Ethan stares at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter. "You're joking."

"I'm completely serious," Jake says, grabbing his planner from his backpack and flipping it open. "Think about it—if she's spending time with me, that's less time studying. If I can get under her skin, disrupt that perfect focus..."

"That's cold, man," Ethan says, though he sounds impressed. "Even for you."

Jake shrugs, already jotting down ideas. "It's not personal. It's strategic."

"And what if she says no?" Ethan challenges.

Jake looks up, his signature confidence returning. He runs a hand through his hair, instantly restoring it to its usual perfection, and flashes the smile that got him voted "Most Likely to Succeed" three years running.

"No one says no to Jake Sim," he says with a wink.

Over the next hour, Jake crafts what he considers the perfect plan. He maps out your study schedule based on when he's seen you at the library. He notes your usual coffee spots, your preferred study locations, even which days you attend office hours. He's been your competition long enough to know your habits.

"Phase one: casual coffee," he mutters, writing it down. "Phase two: study dates. Phase three: actual dates."

Ethan watches with growing concern. "You know, most people just ask someone out because they like them."

"I do like her," Jake says absently, still planning. "I like beating her."

"You sound abusive."

"You know what I mean."

"And what happens when midterms are over? When you've gotten what you want?"

Jake looks up, genuinely confused. "Then I end it, obviously."

Ethan shakes his head. "You're going to fall on your face with this one, Sim."

"Watch me," Jake replies, holding up his planner with a flourish. Every hour of the next two weeks is now color-coded and annotated with his "Distraction Campaign."

He's never been more excited about a project in his life. The Harrison Fellowship is as good as his. And the look on your face when he finally beats you? He can already imagine it, can already feel the sweet satisfaction of victory.

What Jake doesn't account for is the possibility that his perfect plan might have one fatal flaw: himself.

-

The next morning, you're settling into your usual spot in the library's northeast corner—the one with the perfect combination of natural light and distance from foot traffic—when a coffee cup appears in your peripheral vision.

"Americano, extra shot, light room for cream. That's your usual, right?"

You look up to find Jake standing there, holding not one but two cups of coffee, dressed in a blue button-down that makes his eyes seem impossibly dark in comparison. His hair is artfully tousled, and he's wearing the smile that graces the university's promotional materials.

"How do you know my coffee order?" you ask, suspicious.

Jake shrugs, sliding the cup toward you. "I notice things."

"Like my study schedule?" You glance pointedly at your books, then back at him.

"Actually, that's why I'm here." Jake pulls out the chair across from you without waiting for an invitation. "I was thinking we could study together for the Advanced Statistical Methods final."

You nearly choke on your first sip of coffee. "Study together? You and me?"

"Why not? We're the top two students. It makes sense."

It makes absolutely no sense. You and Jake have been academic rivals since freshman year. Studying together would be like a gazelle inviting a cheetah to dinner.

"What's your angle?" you ask bluntly.

Jake places a hand over his heart, feigning offense. "Can't a guy just want to collaborate with a fellow academic?"

"A guy, yes. You? No."

His smile shifts into something more genuine—smaller but reaching his eyes. "Fair enough. But I'm serious. Professor Rivera's finals are legendary. Even I could use some help with time series analysis."

God, I'm good, Jake thinks, mentally congratulating himself. The humble approach is working perfectly. A little vulnerability, a touch of self-deprecation, and she's already softening. Time series analysis? Please. I memorized that chapter last week. But she doesn't need to know that. Step one of the Distraction Campaign is officially in motion.

Against your better judgment, you agree. You tell yourself it's because you can keep an eye on him this way, maybe even figure out his study techniques.

By the fourth study session, you're beginning to regret your decision. Not because Jake is unpleasant company—quite the opposite. The problem is that nothing gets done when he's around.

"So if we apply the Durbin-Watson statistic here—" you begin, only to be interrupted by Jake's phone buzzing for the twelfth time in twenty minutes.

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all as he checks the message. "Study group chat. They're trying to figure out where to meet later."

"You have another study group today?" you ask, exasperated.

"No, tonight's the Alpha Delta Pi mixer. I'm helping set up." He flashes that campus celebrity smile. "You should come."

"Pass," you say, trying to refocus on your notes. "Some of us prioritize academics."

"All work and no play," Jake tsks, leaning back in his chair. His foot nudges yours under the table—accidentally? You can't tell.

"Can we please get back to time series analysis?"

"Sure, sure," he concedes, but within minutes, he's tapping his pen rhythmically against the textbook, creating a distracting beat.

You grab the pen from his hand. "Jake. Focus."

He grins. "Sorry. Did you know you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you're concentrating? It's cute."

The comment throws you so completely that you lose your place in your notes. Jake takes advantage of your momentary disorientation to check his phone again.

"Don't you have a system?" you ask, frustration mounting. "A study schedule? Notes? Anything?"

Jake laughs. "I have a photographic memory. I just need to read through something once."

You stare at him in disbelief. "That's..."

"Unfair? Yeah, I know." He winks. "But we all have our strengths. Mine's memory. Yours is..." he gestures vaguely, "...being intensely organized, I guess."

You narrow your eyes, not sure if you've been complimented or insulted.

The pattern continues for a week. Jake shows up at your study spots with coffee, snacks, or once, inexplicably, a small potted cactus ("It reminded me of you—prickly but low-maintenance"). He asks insightful questions just often enough that you can't justify kicking him out, but he constantly interrupts with texts, stories, or unnecessary observations.

"Did you know the librarian at the front desk used to be a professional ballerina?" he whispers, leaning so close you can smell his cologne. "She performed with the National Ballet for ten years before blowing out her knee."

"Fascinating," you mutter, trying to ignore how his proximity makes your heart rate pick up. "Can we please focus on the practice problems?"

"I was focusing," Jake protests. "I finished the set fifteen minutes ago."

You glance down at his paper. Sure enough, all twenty problems are completed, with work shown in his surprisingly neat handwriting.

"How did you—I've only done eight!"

Jake shrugs, looking pleased with himself. "Photographic memory, remember? I read the chapter once."

"Then why are you even here?" you snap, frustration boiling over.

His expression softens into something unreadable. "Maybe I like the company."

You don't have a quick response for that.

-

The day before your Advanced Statistical Methods final, Jake suggests studying at his apartment "for a change of scenery." Against your better judgment, you agree.

You arrive to find his roommate Ethan headed out the door.

"You must be the competition," Ethan says with a knowing smile. "Good luck." He shoots Jake a look you can't interpret before leaving.

Jake's apartment is surprisingly neat, with an unexpected number of books lining the walls. You'd pictured a bachelor pad with pizza boxes and sports memorabilia, not this adult space with actual furniture and framed art.

"What? Did you think I lived in a frat house?" Jake asks, reading your expression with annoying accuracy.

"Kind of," you admit.

"I'm more than just the campus golden boy, you know." There's an edge to his voice you haven't heard before.

The study session starts out productively enough. You quiz each other on formulas, and Jake makes flash cards that actually help clarify a complex concept you've been struggling with.

Then, in the middle of explaining autocorrelation, Jake suddenly says, "I'm starving. Want pizza?"

Before you can answer, he's on the phone ordering, and somehow twenty minutes disappear into a conversation about the best pizza toppings (you: mushroom and olive, him: Hawaiian, which leads to a heated debate about pineapple as a legitimate topping).

When the food arrives, Jake insists on taking a study break. One episode of a show turns into three. When you finally check your watch, it's 11 PM, and you've accomplished maybe a third of what you planned.

"I should go," you say, gathering your notes.

"It's late. I can walk you home."

"I live in the north dorms. It's a fifteen-minute walk."

"Exactly. Perfect opportunity to quiz each other on regression analysis."

You want to say no, but he's already grabbing his jacket.

The night air is cool, and Jake walks close enough that your shoulders occasionally brush. True to his word, he quizzes you on formulas as you walk, and you're begrudgingly impressed by how much he actually knows.

At your dorm entrance, he hands you a final flash card. "Last one."

You take it, squinting in the dim light. Instead of a formula, it reads: "Coffee tomorrow morning before the final? 7 AM?"

You look up to find him watching you intently, his usual confident smile replaced by something more hesitant.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," you say slowly. "I have a morning routine before exams."

"Part of which includes coffee, right? I'll bring it to you. No study talk. Just caffeine and moral support."

You should say no. This whole "friendship" with Jake has already cut into your study time more than you'd like to admit. But there's something in his expression that makes you pause.

"Fine. But if you're late with my coffee, all bets are off."

His smile returns full force. "I wouldn't dream of it."

As you head into your building, you realize with a start that you've actually enjoyed spending time with Jake. Not that you'd ever admit it to him.

What you don't see is the way Jake's smile transforms into a triumphant grin as soon as you're gone. He actually pumps his fist in the air like he's just scored the winning touchdown.

"Phase two: complete," he whispers to himself, pulling out his phone to text Ethan. THIS IS TOO EASY, he types, adding three crying-laughing emojis. She's actually letting me walk her to her dorm. Tomorrow I'll sabotage her entire morning routine.

He strolls back toward his apartment, checking items off his mental Distraction Campaign list. Yet somewhere between his self-congratulation and plotting tomorrow's coffee delivery (he plans to be precisely seven minutes late—just enough to throw off her exam prep but not enough for her to give up waiting), he realizes he's humming.

Jake Sim doesn't hum. But here he is, practically skipping down the sidewalk, because he's seeing you again in less than twelve hours. For the plan, he tells himself firmly. Obviously just for the plan.

-

The Statistical Methods final comes and goes. Despite Jake's best attempts at sabotage, you still manage to edge him out by two points. His frown when Professor Rivera announces the scores is brief but noticeable before he slips back into his golden boy persona, all easy smiles and gracious congratulations.

"This calls for a celebration," he says afterward, falling into step beside you as you exit the classroom.

"Me beating you again?" you ask with a smirk.

"Our combined brilliance," he counters smoothly. "Dinner tonight? I know a place off campus that makes incredible pasta."

You hesitate. The study sessions were one thing—you could justify them as academic. But dinner? That sounds suspiciously like a date.

"I have to start my research paper for Political Economics," you say, which is true. The paper isn't due for two weeks, but your color-coded semester planner has tonight blocked off for outline development.

Jake's smile doesn't falter. "Perfect. I'll bring takeout to the library. Which section will you be in? The third-floor carrels or your usual table by the east windows?"

It's unnerving how well he knows your study habits.

"Fine. East windows. 7 PM." You shake your head, wondering when exactly you started agreeing to Jake Sim's proposals so easily.

Jake arrives at 6:58 PM with two bags of food that smell so divine you immediately realize how hungry you are. He pulls up a chair beside you—not across the table where a study partner would sit, but close enough that your elbows occasionally brush.

"I got you the mushroom ravioli," he says, unpacking containers. "And garlic bread. And tiramisu."

"How did you know I like mushroom ravioli?"

Jake grins. "You mentioned it during our pineapple-on-pizza debate. I pay attention."

The food is incredible, and despite your intentions to eat quickly and get back to work, you find yourself lingering over dinner, drawn into Jake's animated story about his disastrous first college party.

"So there I am, completely soaked, holding this stranger's pet iguana, while the campus police are knocking on the front door," he concludes, and you're laughing so hard you have to cover your mouth to avoid disturbing other students.

Jake reaches out and gently moves a strand of hair from your face. The gesture is so unexpected that you freeze.

"Sorry," he says, not looking sorry at all. "It was bothering me."

Perfect, Jake thinks, noting how you momentarily freeze at his touch. One small touch, ah-ah-ah! Another step in my master plan. He mentally checks off another item on his distraction checklist, feeling rather pleased with himself for how easily you've been thrown off your focus.

You clear your throat and turn back to your laptop, suddenly very interested in your research paper outline. "I should really get back to work."

"Of course," Jake says, but he doesn't leave. Instead, he pulls out his own laptop. "I've got some reading to do anyway."

Every few minutes, he shifts in his seat or sighs or taps his fingers on the table, each movement pulling your attention away from your work. You're about to snap at him when he leans over to look at your screen.

"Your outline structure is impressive," he says, genuinely. "I never thought to organize political theories that way."

The compliment catches you off guard, and you find yourself explaining your approach. Before you know it, an hour has passed discussing political philosophy instead of writing your outline.

"You're doing this on purpose," you accuse, suddenly realizing his game.

"Doing what?" He widens his eyes in mock innocence.

"Distracting me."

Jake places a hand over his heart. "I'm wounded. Can't I just enjoy intellectual conversation with the smartest person on campus?"

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Seems to be working so far," he says with a wink.

You roll your eyes and turn back to your laptop, determined to ignore him. It works for approximately five minutes before he slides a folded piece of paper in front of you.

Curious despite yourself, you open it to find a surprisingly good sketch of you concentrating on your work, complete with the small furrow between your eyebrows that he'd mentioned before.

"When did you do this?" you ask, startled.

"Just now. I dabble in drawing."

"Is there anything you're not good at?" The question comes out more sincere than you intended.

Jake's cocky smile falters for a moment. "Beating you, apparently."

There's a hint of genuine frustration in his voice that makes you look at him more closely. For a brief moment, the golden boy facade slips, and you catch a glimpse of something more complex beneath—ambition, insecurity, determination all mixed together.

Before you can respond, he stands up. "I should let you work. But first..." He hesitates, then plunges ahead. "Would you go out with me? Like, on an actual date. Not studying. Not takeout at the library. A real date."

You stare at him, speechless. This isn't part of your carefully planned semester. Dating Jake Sim doesn't fit anywhere in your color-coded schedule or your academic goals.

"Why?" you finally ask.

His smile returns, but it's different somehow—less practiced, more nervous. "Because I like you. Because you're the only person on campus who doesn't buy into my whole..." he gestures vaguely at himself,"...thing."

You stare at him blankly for a moment, then raise an eyebrow. "What 'thing'? Your dick?"

Jake's eyes widen in shock before he bursts out laughing, a genuine, unpolished laugh that's nothing like his carefully cultivated campus-celebrity chuckle.

"No! I meant—" he gestures vaguely again, still laughing, "—the whole golden boy persona. The Jake Sim Experience™."

"Oh," you say, fighting a smile. "I thought you were just being weird."

You should say no. Every logical part of your brain is screaming to reject this distraction from your goals.

"When?" you hear yourself asking instead.

Jake's face lights up with genuine surprise, as if he expected rejection. "Friday? 7 PM?"

"I have to work on my—"

"Political Economics paper, I know," he interrupts. "But even you need to take breaks sometimes. I promise to have you home at a reasonable hour, and I'll even help you with research on Saturday."

You find yourself nodding. "Okay. Friday."

"Okay," he echoes, looking so genuinely pleased that you momentarily forget this is Jake Sim, campus golden boy and your academic rival.

He gathers his things, still smiling. "I'll text you details."

As he walks away, you try to refocus on your outline, but your mind keeps drifting to Friday night. It's just one date, you tell yourself. What harm could it do?

-

Back at his apartment, Jake crosses off "Step 7: Secure actual date" from his Distraction Campaign list with a flourish.

"She actually said yes?" Ethan asks, looking up from his video game.

"Why do you sound so surprised?" Jake tosses his backpack on the couch and collapses next to it.

"Because she's smart enough to know better?"

Jake throws a pillow at his roommate. "The plan is working perfectly. I've already cost her at least ten hours of study time this week. By the time the Harrison Fellowship application is due, she'll be so off her game I'll finally beat her."

"And you're still convinced this is just about winning?" Ethan asks, pausing his game to give Jake a knowing look.

"What else would it be about?"

Ethan snorts. "You sketched her, man. You never sketch anyone."

"It was part of the distraction," Jake insists, but he finds himself pulling out the second drawing he made—the one he didn't give her, the one that captures her mid-laugh, eyes bright with intelligence and humor.

"Right," Ethan says, noticing the drawing. "Just make sure you know which one of you is actually getting distracted here."

Jake rolls his eyes. "Please. I'm totally focused. You should hear my internal monologues when I'm with her. I literally count every successful distraction tactic like I'm Count Dracula or something. 'One missed study hour, ah-ah-ah! Two coffee dates, ah-ah-ah!'"

Ethan stares at him for a beat. "Yeah, right. Because that's not what love sounds like at all."

"Right?!" Jake agrees enthusiastically. "It's pure strategy. Nothing else."

Ethan face-palms. "That was sarcasm, you idiot."

"Whatever." Jake waves him off, completely missing the point. "You'll see when I win the fellowship and she's wondering what happened to her perfect GPA."

-

Friday arrives faster than you anticipated. You spend an embarrassing amount of time choosing an outfit—something casual enough to maintain your dignity but nice enough to acknowledge this is, in fact, a date.

When Jake knocks on your door at precisely 7 PM, he's brought his A-game. Designer jeans, a button-down with the sleeves rolled up to showcase his forearms, and that calculated smile that's gotten him through every social situation since puberty.

"You look nice," he says, his eyes doing an appreciative sweep that makes you momentarily self-conscious.

"So do you," you reply, because it's true, even if you wish it weren't.

The restaurant he's chosen is a small Italian place tucked away on a side street downtown, far enough from campus that you're unlikely to run into other students. It's intimate without being overtly romantic, with exposed brick walls and soft lighting.

The conversation flows surprisingly well. Jake is charming when he wants to be, asking questions about your hometown, your family, your childhood dreams. You find yourself laughing at his stories, drawn in by the way his face lights up when he talks about his first debate tournament victory.

This is going perfectly, Jake thinks, watching you smile at something he's said. Phase three proceeding exactly as planned. Every minute she spends with me is a minute not spent on the Harrison application. By this time next month, that fellowship will have my name on it.

His internal victory lap continues through dessert, especially when he catches you staring at his mouth while he tells a story about his freshman year roommate.

After dinner, Jake suggests a walk along the riverfront. The night is cool but not cold, and the path is lit by old-fashioned lampposts that cast a golden glow on the water.

"So," Jake says, walking close enough that your hands occasionally brush, "this was nice."

"It was," you admit, surprising yourself with how much you mean it.

"We should do it again sometime," he suggests, stopping by the railing overlooking the river.

"Maybe," you say, unwilling to concede too easily. "I do have a lot of work to do on my fellowship application."

Jake takes a step closer, exactly as he'd planned during his pre-date strategy session with Ethan. "The fellowship isn't for another month," he says, his voice dropping lower. "Plenty of time for both work and... other things."

Before you can respond, he leans in and kisses you.

It's meant to be calculated—the perfect mix of confidence and restraint, designed to leave you wanting more, to occupy your thoughts when you should be focusing on academics. But something unexpected happens when his lips meet yours.

For a brief, disconcerting moment, Jake forgets the plan entirely.

Your response, the soft sound you make as your hands find his shoulders, the way you taste like the tiramisu you shared for dessert—it short-circuits his strategic thinking. When you pull back slightly, he follows, chasing your lips without conscious thought.

"That was..." you begin, sounding slightly breathless.

Jake quickly regains his composure, mentally adjusting his strategy. This is even better than I planned. She's completely flustered.

"Just the beginning," he finishes with a confident smile, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "If you want it to be."

You narrow your eyes slightly, as if trying to figure him out. "What's your angle, Sim?"

"No angle," he lies smoothly. "Just enjoying the moment."

You don't look entirely convinced, but when he leans in again, you meet him halfway.

-

Over the next week, Jake implements what he privately calls "Operation Kiss Distraction." The strategy is brilliant in its simplicity—physical contact prevents academic focus. And it works every time.

On Monday afternoon, you're reviewing notes for Professor Wright's Macroeconomics seminar when Jake slides into the chair beside you, coffee in hand.

"How's it going?" he asks, leaning close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

"I need to finish these notes before—"

He silences you mid-sentence with a kiss, soft and deliberate. Your protest dissolves as his hand cups your cheek, tilting your face toward his. By the time he pulls away, you've forgotten what chapter you were reviewing.

"Before what?" he asks innocently, his thumb tracing your lower lip.

"I... don't remember," you admit, and Jake's smile is nothing short of triumphant.

On Wednesday, you're in the library's reference section, surrounded by economics journals for your fellowship research. Jake finds you there, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before you even realize he's arrived.

"How did you find me?" you ask, trying to maintain your focus on the article you've been highlighting.

"I always know where to find you," he murmurs, his lips moving to the sensitive spot below your ear. The highlighter slips from your fingers as he works his way along your neck, leaving a trail of heat in his wake.

"Jake," you protest weakly, "I have to finish this research."

"In a minute," he promises, turning your chair to face him. His kiss is deeper this time, more insistent. Your hands find their way into his hair as he pulls you to your feet, backing you against the shelves. The solid weight of the books behind you contrasts with the warmth of his body against yours, his mouth hot and demanding.

When he finally breaks the kiss, you're both breathing hard. Jake's usual perfectly styled hair is mussed from your fingers, his eyes dark with something that looks like genuine desire.

"See? Just a minute," he says with a grin, though it's been at least fifteen.

You try to remember what journal article you were reading, but your mind is blank, filled instead with the lingering sensation of Jake's mouth on yours.

-

By Friday, you've developed a Pavlovian response to his presence—one look from Jake across a room and your pulse quickens in anticipation. He knows it too, using it to his advantage.

During a study group at his apartment, he waits until the others are engrossed in problem sets before leaning close, his breath warm against your ear.

“Meet me in the kitchen.”

You shouldn’t go. You have work to do. But two minutes later, your book is forgotten, and you’re following him anyway.

The moment you step inside, Jake is on you. He shoves you against the counter, his mouth crashing into yours, hungry and insistent. His hands are already under your sweater, fingers skimming up your sides, making you shiver at the contrast of his heat against your skin.

“We shouldn’t,” you pant as his teeth scrape against your collarbone, his grip tightening on your waist. “Everyone’s right there.”

“Then be quiet,” he murmurs, lips dragging lower.

A moan slips out before you can stop it as he sucks a deep mark onto your throat, his tongue teasing the bruised skin before moving lower. His hands wander, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers brushing over your soaked underwear.

“Fuck,” he exhales against your neck, pressing the pads of his fingers firmly over the thin fabric. “Already wet for me?”

Your breath hitches as he rubs slow, teasing circles, the pressure making your thighs shake. He chuckles, dark and low, before slipping his hand beneath the fabric, his fingers sliding against your slick folds.

You grip his shoulders as he works you open, curling his fingers just right, his pace unrelenting. Your body arches against him, desperate for more, but he doesn’t let up—doesn’t stop marking you, doesn’t stop driving you closer to the edge with expert precision.

“Cum for me,” he whispers against your skin, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Be a good girl and make a mess for me.”

And you do—your climax crashes over you, your body shuddering as his fingers continue their slow, torturous strokes, dragging it out until you’re barely holding yourself up.

He finally pulls back, admiring the deep red bruises blooming across your neck and chest, the way your body still trembles in the aftermath. He smooths a hand over your thigh, smirking as you struggle to catch your breath.

Twenty minutes later, you return to the study group, cheeks flushed, legs weak, lips swollen from his kisses. You pretend to focus, but you can still feel the ghost of his fingers between your thighs, the bruises throbbing like a silent confession.

Jake follows a minute after, looking impossibly composed, except for the self-satisfied smirk he can’t quite suppress.

Another productive session, he thinks, eyes flickering to the marks on your skin. She’s falling further behind every day.

-

The next Tuesday, after an especially intense makeout session that leaves you both disheveled and breathless, Jake captures your hands in his, expression suddenly serious.

"I've been thinking."

Your stomach tightens. Is this where he admits the whole thing has been a calculated distraction? That none of it meant anything?

"We've been doing... whatever this is... for a couple weeks now," he continues, his thumb tracing circles on your palm in a way that makes it hard to focus. "And I think we should make it official."

You blink, surprised. "Official?"

"Be my girlfriend," he says, flashing that perfect Jake Sim smile that's graced countless campus publications. "Properly."

It's the logical next step for his plan, he tells himself. Girlfriend status means more of her time, more distraction, more control over her schedule. It's strategic brilliance, not genuine desire. The flutter in his chest when she smiles up at him? Merely satisfaction with his own cunning.

"Okay," you agree, and he kisses you again, mentally checking off another item on his master plan.

Phase Four complete, Jake thinks triumphantly. This fellowship is as good as mine.

What Jake doesn't acknowledge, even to himself, is how often he finds himself thinking about you when you're not around. How he's started skipping his own study sessions to meet you. How his friends have noticed his GPA slipping while yours somehow remains steady.

"Dude, you missed the entire Econ study group yesterday," his friend Matt points out after class. "We're two weeks out from finals."

"I had something more important to do," Jake says, thinking of how you'd smiled against his mouth when he surprised you outside your afternoon lecture.

Matt looks skeptical. "More important than maintaining your GPA for the Harrison Fellowship? You've been working toward that since freshman year."

Jake shrugs it off, but the comment nags at him. Has he possibly overcommitted to his distraction strategy? Is he risking his own academic standing in the process?

He resolves to recalibrate, to find a better balance between distracting you and focusing on his own work. But that resolution lasts exactly as long as it takes for you to text him asking if he wants to meet at the library.

Just an hour, he promises himself. I'll kiss her senseless for an hour, then go back to my apartment and work on my application.

The hour turns into three, and he doesn't get any work done that night.

The pattern continues. Each time Jake thinks he's the one in control, each time he mentally tallies another successful distraction, he fails to notice how his own academic focus is slipping. How his perfectly organized planner is suddenly full of your name instead of study reminders. How he's started dreaming about you instead of his acceptance letter to Stanford.

-

"The plan is still on track," he insists when Ethan questions him. "She's completely distracted."

"And you're not?" Ethan asks pointedly, gesturing to Jake's phone that he's checking for the fifth time in ten minutes.

"Of course not," Jake scoffs, hastily putting his phone face-down. "I'm laser-focused on victory."

"Right," Ethan drawls. "That's why you've written her name in your planner instead of 'study for Econ final'?"

Jake slams the planner shut. "That's... strategic. So I remember when we're meeting to... implement distraction tactics."

"And the fact that you've started wearing cologne to the library?"

"Psychological warfare."

"You missed basketball with the guys to help her carry books."

"Building trust to maximize future distractions."

"You turned down Jessica Miller—who you've had a crush on since freshman orientation—because she asked you out on the same night you were supposed to see the protagonist."

"Commitment to the mission."

Ethan picks up a crumpled paper from Jake's desk and unfolds it. "And this poem?"

Jake snatches it away, cheeks reddening. "Research! I'm researching what kind of sappy stuff might further distract her."

"Uh-huh. And you've set her text tone to a special sound because...?"

"So I know exactly when my target is messaging me," Jake explains with the confidence of someone completely deluding himself.

"You literally have a framed photo of her on your nightstand."

"That's just to... remind me of the enemy."

Ethan throws his hands up in exasperation. "You planned your entire class schedule around hers for next semester!"

"Advanced strategic planning," Jake insists, even as he absently doodles her initials on his notebook margin. "The long game."

The truth—which Jake is nowhere near ready to admit—is that somewhere between calculated kisses and genuine laughter, between strategic touches and real conversations, his perfect plan has developed a fatal flaw:

He's falling for you. And he doesn't even realize it.

-

Jake wakes up in a cold sweat, staring at the calendar on his wall. Three weeks until the Harrison Fellowship deadline, and his plan is working too well—on himself.

"I need to recalibrate," he mutters, grabbing his planner. "Time for phase five: Total Disruption."

After a hurried breakfast, he texts Ethan his new strategy while walking to class.

"You're digging yourself deeper," Ethan replies immediately.

"Watch and learn," Jake types back with the unfounded confidence of a man about to step on a rake.

He implements the new tactics that very afternoon. When you mention needing to study at your apartment that night, Jake suggests studying together, kisses you until you agree, then "accidentally" falls asleep on your couch. By the time you wake him at 2 AM, neither of you has done any work, but he counts it as a win.

"Sorry, princess," he murmurs sleepily, using one of his new strategic pet names. "Guess I was more tired than I thought."

You raise an eyebrow at the nickname but let it slide. "You should go home and get some actual sleep."

"Or I could stay," he counters, pulling you down for another kiss. "Save myself the walk across campus."

It works. You let him stay, and Jake falls asleep feeling smug about another night of study time successfully sabotaged.

What he doesn't anticipate is waking to find you already up, quietly typing at your desk, wearing his sweatshirt from the night before.

"Morning, sleepyhead," you say without looking up. "Hope you don't mind I borrowed this. It's comfortable."

Jake stares, momentarily forgetting his master plan because something about seeing you in his clothes makes his chest feel tight. "I... no, that's... it looks good on you."

"Thanks," you reply, still focused on your laptop. "I made coffee. I've been up since six working on this fellowship essay. Having you here actually helped me focus—I didn't want to wake you by going out to the library."

Jake's smug feeling evaporates. "You've been working for three hours already?"

"Mmhmm. You're cute when you sleep, by the way. Very peaceful. Not at all like when you're awake and plotting world domination."

He's not sure which is more disconcerting—that his sleepover tactic completely backfired or that you called him cute.

The next day, he tries a new approach. While you're in the bathroom during a study session, he quickly closes all fifteen tabs on your laptop, thinking it will set your research back significantly.

You return, notice immediately, and sigh. "Did you close my browser?"

"Oh, did I?" Jake feigns innocence. "Sorry, I was just checking something and must have hit the wrong button."

"It's fine," you say, pulling out your phone. "I was using the cloud sync feature. See?" You tap a few buttons, and all fifteen tabs reappear on your laptop screen. "Everything's backed up automatically. Handy, right?"

Jake's smile feels brittle. "Super handy."

His attempt to hide your textbooks the following week is thwarted when you casually mention that you primarily use the e-book versions anyway. "They're searchable," you explain, showing him how quickly you can find specific information. "Much more efficient."

The emergency ice cream date he arranges the night before your Political Economics paper is due—which should have derailed your writing schedule—somehow turns into a productive discussion about Keynesian theory that actually helps you refine your thesis.

"This is exactly what I needed to tie my argument together," you tell him excitedly between bites of rocky road. "You're a genius, baby."

The casual endearment catches Jake so off guard that he chokes on his ice cream.

"You okay there, Jakey?" you ask, patting his back as he coughs.

"Fine," he wheezes, face red. "Just... went down the wrong way."

You continue using the nickname throughout the evening, each "Jakey" hitting him like a physical blow. It shouldn't affect him—it's just a name—but something about the affection in your voice when you say it makes his stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with ice cream.

By the time he walks you home, Jake is thoroughly confused by his own reactions. This isn't part of the plan. None of it is.

The clothing swap attempt is perhaps his most spectacular failure. After a particularly heated make-out session at his apartment, Jake deliberately puts his t-shirt in your bag and hides the one you wore over.

"Can't find my shirt," you say, rummaging through your things the next morning.

"That's weird," Jake replies, feigning confusion. "Maybe it got mixed in with the laundry?"

"Probably," you agree easily, grabbing one of his shirts from his drawer. "I'll borrow this one, okay? I'm already running late for Richardson's lecture."

Jake watches in disbelief as you pull his shirt on, gather your books, and kiss him goodbye. The shirt is too big, sliding off one shoulder, but instead of looking disheveled, you somehow make it look deliberate and stylish. When you walk into lecture twenty minutes later, he overhears two girls complimenting your outfit.

"Isn't that Jake Sim's shirt?" one whispers. "They must be serious."

The comment shouldn't please him. It's supposed to be about making you late, not about public confirmation of your relationship. Yet he finds himself smiling anyway.

-

The text message barrage during your Advanced Economic Theory seminar is Jake's next carefully plotted distraction. He sets alarms for precise intervals, determined to make your phone buzz continuously throughout Hammond's lecture.

8:05 AM: Morning. Left a coffee on your desk. Hope Hammond doesn't bore you to death today.

8:13 AM: Still thinking about last night. The way you gasped when I touched you there...hard to focus in class right now.

8:19 AM: Prof Wilson just used your elasticity argument from last week. Didn't credit you though, the bastard.

8:24 AM: thinking abt you in that tiny red dress of yours, suddenly my dicks stood up like a perfectly inelastic supply curve

8:31 AM: Found that article you needed for your paper. I'll trade it for dinner tonight. Thai place just opened downtown.

8:36 AM: You look so good in that blue sweater. Even better when I was taking it off you yesterday.

8:42 AM: Remember what we did in the library stacks last week? I keep picturing you pressed against those books, trying not to make a sound.

8:47 AM: Study at my place tonight? Ethan's gone till morning. We can actually be loud for once. I love it when you're loud.

8:52 AM: The hickey I left on your inner thigh still there? Maybe I should check personally after class.

8:55 AM: Just realized I still have your underwear from Tuesday. You can have them back... or not. Your call.

The messages continue, alternating between casual conversation starters, blatant attempts to tempt you away from academics, strategic pet names (Jake has privately ranked their effectiveness, with "princess" at the top), and the memes he's carefully selected as backup distractions.

But when class ends, you emerge looking perfectly composed. "Phone on silent," you explain when he casually asks if you got his texts. "I always silence it during Hammond's lectures. He's strict about interruptions."

"Right," Jake says, deflated. "Smart."

"But I did see them after class," you continue, linking your arm through his as you walk across the quad. "The memes were funny. Nice distraction technique."

Jake glances at you, trying to gauge whether you're annoyed about the explicit messages.

"So..." he ventures, "the other texts didn't bother you?"

"Bother me? No." You give him a sly smile. "Though I'm pretty sure Hammond would've had a stroke if he'd seen what you wrote about perfectly inelastic supply curves."

Jake feels his face warm slightly, which is ridiculous because he's not the type to blush. "I meant every word."

"I know you did." You lean closer. "And yes to dinner tonight. Though I already found that article myself."

"I meant what I said about my place too," Jake says, his voice dropping lower as a group of freshmen pass by. "Ethan really is gone all evening."

You pretend to consider it. "I do have that study block scheduled..."

"I'll make it worth rescheduling," he promises, mouth close to your ear.

"You always think you're so irresistible, don't you, Jakey?" you whisper back.

There it is again—that fluttering in his stomach at the nickname. It's getting harder to ignore, especially the way it sounds so natural coming from your lips. Jake doesn't understand why his calculated pet names feel like strategic maneuvers while yours feel like treasured endearments.

"We'll see," he says, already thinking of ways to make you forget all about your study schedule tonight. Maybe he'll wear that shirt you like, the one that brings out his eyes. Maybe he'll suggest dessert after dinner. Maybe he'll use that cologne you always seem to lean in for.

Jake's so busy plotting his next move that he doesn't notice the knowing smile on your face—or the flash drive in your bag containing a nearly completed fellowship draft that you've been working on during the hours he thinks you're distracted.

-

Three days later, Jake implements what he considers his most strategic move yet: the extended weekend getaway. Under the guise of a romantic surprise, he books a cabin at a lakeside resort two hours from campus for the weekend before a major economics presentation you both need to prepare for.

"No internet," he tells you with what he hopes is a charming smile. "Just you, me, and nature for two days."

To his surprise, you seem genuinely excited. "That sounds perfect! I've been so stressed with all these deadlines. A break will help clear my head."

"Exactly," Jake agrees, already imagining how far behind you'll fall without internet access or your usual study materials. "It'll be... relaxing."

They arrive Friday evening, and Jake is pleased to discover the cabin is as rustic as advertised. No WiFi, spotty cell service, and blissfully isolated from neighboring cabins.

"It's beautiful," you say, walking onto the small deck that overlooks the lake. The setting sun casts everything in a golden glow, including your profile as you lean against the railing.

Jake finds himself staring, momentarily forgetting his ulterior motives. "Yeah," he agrees softly. "Beautiful."

You turn and catch him looking, and something in his expression makes you smile in a way that creates a strange tightness in his chest.

"So," you say, walking back to him slowly. "What should we do first in our internet-free paradise?"

Jake has a detailed plan for keeping you thoroughly distracted all weekend. It involves hiking, canoeing, cooking together, board games, and strategic makeout sessions whenever you mention anything remotely academic.

What he doesn’t plan for is how the isolation amplifies everything between you. Without the constant interruptions of campus life, without the pressure of appearing a certain way for classmates or professors, something shifts.

-

Friday night, you build a fire in the small stone fireplace, and Jake uncorks a bottle of wine he brought specifically to lower your academic defenses. One glass turns into two, which turns into lazy kisses on the couch that grow increasingly desperate, increasingly needy.

Your hands slip under his sweater, dragging over warm, taut skin, feeling the way his muscles flex under your touch. When you tug it over his head, he helps you, throwing it aside like it’s useless, like all he needs right now is you. Then he does the same with your shirt, his hands immediately returning to your skin, sliding up your sides, his rings cold and teasing against your heat.

“Fuck,” he breathes, staring at you, pupils blown. His hands roam, fingers grazing over your bare stomach, thumbs brushing up to your tits, teasing your nipples until they pebble under his touch. He groans, head tipping back for a second as if he’s trying to compose himself, but it’s useless. He’s already too far gone.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, voice gravelly, unfiltered. It’s not calculated—just a raw, messy confession that makes your breath hitch.

You don’t answer. You just pull him back down, kissing him deeper, harder, tongue sliding against his as you push up against him. He moans into your mouth, low and needy, gripping your hips as you press closer.

“Bedroom,” you whisper between kisses, and he barely nods before hauling you up, hands firm under your thighs as he carries you there.

The cabin’s lone bedroom is small, but he barely notices it, too focused on the way firelight spills across your skin, making you look almost unreal. Almost untouchable.

But he does touch you.

He lowers you onto the bed, spreading you out beneath him, then he’s kissing his way down, taking his time, dragging his lips over your collarbone, your stomach, leaving a path of heat in his wake.

And then he’s between your thighs, spreading you open, eyes dark, his rings a sharp, cool contrast against your burning skin.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, voice already wrecked. “Look at you, baby. So fucking wet.”

You whimper as he trails his fingers through your slick folds, the sensation heightened by the hard, unrelenting press of his rings against your sensitive skin.

“Jake,” you whisper, thighs twitching as he spreads your folds with his fingers, watching the way you glisten in the dim light.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You’re dripping. You want me that bad?”

You nod, gasping when he drags his thumb over your clit, pressing down, rubbing slow, torturous circles. The metal of his rings makes it colder, sharper, and the sensation sends a full-body shiver through you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Need to taste you.”

Then he dives in, licking a long, slow stripe up your slit before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking, hard.

You cry out, hands immediately burying in his hair, gripping tight, and Jake—Jake fucking moans so loud into you it vibrates through your whole body.

“Oh my god—Jake,” you whine, head falling back as he keeps going, licking, sucking, absolutely devouring you like he’s starving.

He groans again, his hips grinding into the mattress like he’s getting off just from tasting you, and the desperate, wrecked sounds coming from him make you even wetter.

Then he slides two fingers inside, and you swear you see stars.

“Holy fuck,” he pants against your thigh, thrusting his fingers in and out, his rings catching against your slick heat with every movement. “You’re so fucking tight. Jesus, baby.”

His fingers curl, finding that spot that makes your whole body jolt, and he moans again, practically whimpering against you as he watches you come undone beneath him.

“Listen to her,” he groans, voice shaking, fingers plunging deeper, faster, wetter. “Fucking talking to me, baby—your pussy’s talking to me—”

You sob his name, hips grinding against his mouth, and he loses it, sucking harder, fingers working even faster. The sounds are obscene—wet, messy, loud—but he loves it, loves how ruined you are, how ruined he is.

“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he rasps, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, his lips slick with you. “Gonna make a mess all over my fingers, yeah?”

Your whole body tightens. The heat in your stomach snaps, and you cry out, thighs shaking as you come, clenching hard around his fingers.

Jake moans so loud it’s almost embarrassing, almost filthy the way he reacts to your pleasure like it’s his own.

He keeps moving, working you through it, voice a wrecked, desperate mess of praise. “That’s it, that’s my good fucking girl—holy shit, you feel so good—”

You whimper, body twitching from oversensitivity, and he finally slows down, pulling his fingers out, bringing them to his lips. He groans as he licks them clean, eyes dark and half-lidded as he stares at you.

Then he’s crawling up your body, kissing you breathless, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

He’s lining himself up, pressing in, and the moment he pushes inside, his head drops back and he lets out the most wrecked, filthy moan you’ve ever heard.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” He sounds like he’s falling apart, like this is undoing him completely. His forehead presses against yours, his breath ragged. “Oh my god, baby, you feel—” He exhales sharply, shaking. “I can’t—I need to move—”

“Do it,” you whimper, nails digging into his back.

He groans as he starts thrusting, deep and slow at first, like he’s savoring the way you feel wrapped around him. But then you moan, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he breaks.

He picks up the pace, fucking into you hard, deep, the bed creaking with every movement.

And he’s so loud.

Every thrust rips another filthy moan from his throat, another wrecked gasp, another desperate curse as he loses himself completely.

“God, you’re so loud,” you tease, voice breathless but smug, knowing full well how completely undone he is.

His response is immediate—he gets louder. A shameless, broken groan rips from his chest, his head tipping back, fingers digging into your hips.

“You—fuck—” His voice cracks, his thrusts turning erratic. “You’re gonna—gonna make me—”

“Cum inside me,” you whisper, staring right into his dark, blown-out eyes.

Jake fucking breaks.

He lets out the filthiest, most desperate moan you’ve ever heard, his whole body shaking, his hips snapping against yours one last time as he spills inside you, burying himself deep, filling you up with everything he has.

After, he collapses against you, still shuddering, breath uneven, lips brushing over your skin as he whispers something you can’t quite hear, something too soft, too raw.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was supposed to be a distraction. But as you drift off to sleep against his chest, Jake stays awake, staring at the ceiling, completely, utterly fucked in a way that has nothing to do with sex.

-

Saturday morning, Jake wakes to find you gone from the bed. Panic spikes through him momentarily before he hears movement in the kitchen. He pulls on sweatpants and pads out to find you at the small stove, wearing nothing but his button-down shirt from the night before, making pancakes.

"Morning, angel," he says, the endearment falling from his lips without conscious thought. He wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, and is rewarded with a smile that does strange things to his heart rate.

"Morning, Jakey," you reply, turning to kiss him properly. "Sleep well?"

That nickname again. He should hate it—it's childish, diminutive—but when you say it, it feels like some private treasure between you.

"Very," he says, and means it. "Those look good."

"Blueberry pancakes. I found some berries in the fridge."

Jake blinks. Cooking breakfast together was on his distraction agenda, but you've already taken the initiative. He'd planned to get up early, hide your phone to prevent you from checking emails, and control the day's activities. Instead, he slept later than intended, and you seem perfectly content in this tech-free environment he designed to frustrate you.

After breakfast, you suggest a hike, another item from his distraction checklist that you've somehow adopted as your own idea. The fall morning is crisp and clear, perfect for exploring the trails around the lake.

"I needed this," you say as you walk hand in hand along a pine-scented path. "I've been so focused on the fellowship and finals that I forgot what it's like to just... breathe."

Jake feels a twinge of guilt. "You have been working really hard."

You squeeze his hand. "We both have. That's why this weekend is so perfect. A chance to reset before the final push."

The guilt intensifies. He's been working hard, yes, but not as hard as he should be. Not as hard as you. His grades have slipped over the past few weeks, his focus increasingly fragmented between his academic goals and his fixation on sabotaging yours.

The hike leads to a small clearing overlooking the lake. Without discussion, you both stop to admire the view. You lean back against Jake's chest, and he wraps his arms around you instinctively, resting his chin on top of your head.

It's peaceful. Simple. For a few minutes, Jake forgets about fellowships and competition and distraction strategies. He just exists in this moment with you, and it feels bizarrely right.

"Thank you for planning this," you say softly.

"You're welcome, princess," he replies, the pet name now coming naturally.

You turn in his arms, looking up at him with an expression he can't quite decipher. "I like when you call me that," you admit.

"Yeah?" Jake tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "I like when you call me Jakey."

The admission surprises him as much as it seems to please you. You rise on your tiptoes to kiss him, soft and sweet, and something in Jake's chest aches.

The moment is interrupted by a distant roll of thunder. You both look up to see dark clouds gathering on the horizon.

"We should head back," Jake says, taking your hand. "Looks like rain."

You make it halfway to the cabin before the skies open. By the time you reach the porch, you're both soaked through and laughing. Jake pulls you inside, where the remains of the previous night's fire have left the cabin pleasantly warm.

“We should get out of these wet clothes,” Jake suggests, voice thick with heat, his smirk widening when he sees your eyes darken.

You don’t hesitate. Your soaked jacket hits the floor with a heavy plop, followed by your drenched shirt, clinging to your skin before you peel it off.

“Race you to the shower,” you tease, already backing toward the bathroom.

Jake growls low in his throat, tearing off his own clothes as he follows, jeans hitting the floor as he stalks after you.

The moment you step under the spray, hot water cascading down, he’s on you—pressing you against the cold tiles, kissing you deep, messy, hungry.

His hands roam your slick skin, fingers trailing up your waist, over your tits, down your stomach—gripping, groping, claiming. The sharp chill of his rings against your heated body sends a shudder through you.

Then you reach for his hand, dragging it to your mouth. Holding eye contact, you wrap your lips around his middle and pointer finger, sucking slow, obscene.

Jake chokes.

“Ngh— oh my fucking god—”

His hips jerk forward, cock twitching against your stomach, eyes blown wide as he watches you drag your tongue up the length of his fingers before pulling off with a wet pop.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, voice wrecked, and suddenly his mouth is at your ear, his breath hot, desperate. “Turn the fuck around.”

You obey without hesitation, pressing your hands flat against the tiles, arching your back just enough to tempt him.

Jake grips your hips, dragging his cock through your slick folds, teasing—

And then he slams inside.

“Fuck!” His moan is loud, raw, unfiltered, tearing from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt.

You gasp, gripping at the tiles as he stretches you open, splitting you apart. He barely gives you time to adjust before pulling out and slamming back in, setting a brutal, punishing pace that has you wailing.

“Louder,” he growls, voice shaking as he bites down hard on your shoulder, his hips snapping against you. “Fucking scream for me, baby.”

Your moans rise in pitch, gasping and broken, but it’s not enough for him.

“Fucking louder,” he snarls, gripping your chin and turning your head slightly. “Let everyone fucking hear what I’m doing to you.”

And fuck, that does it. You wail his name, voice cracking, high-pitched and desperate, and Jake fucking snaps.

“Oh my fucking god,” he groans, loud, no shame, no restraint. “That’s it, that’s my good girl—fuck, you’re so loud for me, fuck, fuck—”

His fingers slide between your legs, rubbing your clit in harsh, fast circles. “Come on, baby—come for me—fucking scream for me while I ruin this little pussy—”

Your body locks up, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your moans turning into sharp cries as you come hard, clenching down so tight around him.

Jake fucking loses it.

“Fuuuuck, oh my god, fuck, fuck, fuck—ngh—”

His voice shatters, his thrusts turning wild, his hands gripping your hips hard as he slams into you one last time and spills inside you, hips twitching, letting out the most wrecked groan you’ve ever heard.

“Ohhh fuuuuck—” His head tips back, mouth hanging open, the filthiest, most obscene moan tearing from his throat as his cock pulses inside you, filling you up.

He keeps thrusting, whimpering, riding it out, his forehead pressing to your shoulder, panting so hard he’s practically breathless.

Silence. Just the heavy, ragged sound of your breathing, the water pounding down over you both.

Then—Jake laughs, breathless, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder.

“Well.” His voice is wrecked, rough. “Guess I should’ve made you scream my fucking name sooner.”

-

Afterward, wrapped in the cabin's fluffy towels, you curl up together on the couch to watch the storm through the large windows. Jake pulls a blanket over you both, and you nestle against his side, fitting perfectly.

"This is nice," you murmur, already sounding half-asleep. "Just being here with you. No competition, no pressure."

Jake feels a fresh wave of guilt. "Yeah," he agrees quietly. "It is."

Eventually, you doze off, your head on his chest, one hand curled possessively on his stomach. Jake strokes your hair absently, listening to the rain and your steady breathing, trying to ignore the growing realization that he's no longer sure what game he's playing—or if he's playing one at all.

That evening, Jake cooks dinner as planned, but the romantic meal meant to keep you from studying now feels like something he wants to do for you rather than to you. He finds himself putting extra effort into the pasta sauce, adding spices he knows you like, opening the better bottle of wine he'd brought as a backup.

You set the small table by candlelight, and when you sit down to eat, the conversation flows easily—not about classes or the fellowship, but about childhoods and dreams and favorite books. Jake learns more about you in one dinner than he has in three years of competitive observation.

"I want to make a difference," you tell him when he asks about your post-graduation plans. "Economics isn't just about markets and money to me. It's about understanding systems that affect real people's lives."

"That's... actually really cool," Jake says, surprised by his own sincerity.

"What about you?" you ask. "Why economics?"

Jake opens his mouth to give his standard answer—the one about prestigious job opportunities and his father's expectations—but what comes out is something closer to the truth.

"I'm good at it," he admits. "And being good at things has always been important to me. Maybe too important."

You reach across the table to take his hand. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to excel."

"There is when it's the only thing that matters," Jake says quietly, the words emerging from some honest place he usually keeps carefully locked away. "When you'll do anything to win."

You study him for a moment, head tilted thoughtfully. "So when exactly were you planning to tell me that this whole relationship was just an elaborate scheme to distract me from winning the fellowship?"

The question hits like a physical blow. Jake stares at you, mouth actually dropping open. "What—how did you—"

"Please." You roll your eyes. "The timing was painfully obvious. You suddenly wanted to 'study together' right when applications opened? The constant texts during lectures? Accidentally closing my browser tabs? Hiding my books? The weekend getaway with 'no internet'?" You make air quotes with your fingers. "I've been onto you since day one, Jake Sim."

Jake runs a hand through his hair, completely thrown off script. "I—well—shit."

"Did you actually have a written plan? Like an actual document called 'How to Sabotage Her Academic Career'?"

Jake winces. "It wasn't called that exactly, but..."

"Oh my god, you did!" You start laughing, which confuses him even more. "Let me guess, you had phases? Codenames? Did you rank your distraction techniques by effectiveness?"

His silence confirms it all.

"You stupid dumb fuck," you say, shaking your head in disbelief. "I knew everything from the very beginning. Every single move. And you thought you were being so clever."

Jake stares at you for a moment, then his expression shifts from embarrassment to something closer to amusement. His lips quirk up at the corners.

"Baby, I'm so sorry," he says, though his tone makes it abundantly clear he's not sorry at all. He leans forward, lowering his voice. "But I'm also not at all because honestly? Fucking you, being with you is so fucking enjoyable that I don't care what I did to get here."

"Are you serious right now?" You're caught between outrage and reluctant admiration at his audacity.

Jake shrugs, completely unrepentant. "The plan was stupid, sure. But it got us here. And here..." he reaches for your hand across the table, "...is pretty damn good."

"You're unbelievable," you tell him, though you don't pull your hand away.

"I know," he grins, completely missing the criticism. "So, do I need to grovel, or can we skip to the part where you forgive me because you've been playing me just as much as I've been playing you?"

After dinner, you curl up together in front of the fireplace with the second bottle of wine. The storm continues outside, rain pattering against the windows, making the cabin feel even more isolated from the rest of the world.

"Tell me something you've never told anyone," you challenge, your head in Jake's lap as he plays with your hair.

He considers for a moment. "I almost transferred after freshman year."

You sit up, surprised. "Really? Why?"

"Because of you, actually," Jake admits. "You beaten me in every class we shared, and I'd never... I wasn't used to being second best. I thought maybe I wasn't cut out for this university after all."

"What changed your mind?"

Jake meets your eyes. "Pride. Stubbornness. I couldn't let you win like that."

"So you stayed just to beat me?" You sound more amused than offended.

"I stayed to prove I could," Jake corrects. "And then it became about more than that. About actually learning, actually growing. Having you as competition made me better."

You smile, leaning in to kiss him softly. "You make me better too, you know. You push me to work harder, think differently."

The kiss deepens, wine and confessions making you both bolder. Before long, you're straddling his lap, the blanket fallen to the floor as his hands grip your thighs.

“Take me to bed, Jakey,” you murmur against his ear, voice dripping with heat, but your body is soft, pliant against him.

Jake groans, gripping your thighs tighter before standing, lifting you with ease, your legs locked around his waist. His arms wrap securely under you as he walks the short distance to the bed, his lips dragging over your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—like he can’t stop touching you.

The bed creaks as he lowers you onto it, but instead of diving in like usual, he hesitates. Hovering over you, eyes dark, his fingers trailing over your ribs, your stomach, up to your collarbones.

For once, he’s not rushing.

This time is slower, more deliberate.

Jake peels your clothes off piece by piece, kissing each newly exposed patch of skin, his mouth reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. He lingers at your stomach, your hips, your inner thighs—leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses, his breath hot against your sensitive skin.

And you do the same, taking your time dragging your hands down his torso, feeling the muscles tense under your fingertips. You push down his briefs, freeing him completely, and the way his cock twitches in anticipation makes your thighs press together.

Then—finally—he sinks into you.

And it’s so fucking much.

The stretch, the heat, the way his hips press flush against yours, leaving no space between you. His forehead drops to your shoulder, a wrecked, trembling breath escaping him as he fully seats himself inside you.

He doesn’t move. He just stays there, buried to the hilt, breathing hard, his body shaking like he’s about to fall apart.

You feel everything—every pulse, every twitch, every inch of him pressing so deep inside you it makes your breath hitch.

“Jake,” you whisper, voice soft, fingers threading through his hair. “Look at me.”

Nothing.

He’s still hiding—head tucked against your neck, panting against your skin, avoiding your eyes like he’s afraid of what he’ll see.

“Jakey,” you murmur again, voice lilting, teasing. “Baby, look at me.”

Still nothing.

So you smack him.

“Ow—what the fuck?” he sputters, head snapping up.

And you take advantage of his shock—grabbing his face, cupping his jaw, forcing him to look at you.

The moment his eyes finally meet yours, something shifts.

His pupils are blown, his lips parted, his breathing erratic. You watch his throat work as he swallows hard, his body stiffening above you.

And then—his gaze drops.

Straight to your tits.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groans, completely mesmerized, and instead of thrusting, instead of moving at all—he just stares. “Holy shit.”

You smack him again.

“Jake!”

“SORRY!” He grins, voice breathless, but his eyes don’t leave your chest. “It’s just—you look so fucking good—”

“You dumbass, I said look at me,” you growl, yanking his chin up—forcing his eyes back on yours.

He exhales sharply. And this time, he listens.

Eyes locked on yours, he lowers himself, lips grazing over your collarbone, trailing lower—lower—until his mouth finallycloses over your nipple.

“Ohhh, fuck,” you moan, your back arching into him as his tongue flicks over the sensitive bud.

Jake groans, low and deep, sucking hard, his lips wrapping around the soft flesh, but his eyes never leave your face.

“That’s it, baby—” His voice is thick, raspy, hot against your skin. “Wanted my fucking eyes? You got ’em.”

Fuck, it’s so much worse.

The way he’s sucking on your tits, so focused, so intent, his hips starting to rock against you in slow, deep thrusts—never breaking eye contact.

“You’re gonna watch me, baby,” he breathes, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses over your skin between every filthy suck. “Gonna watch me fucking ruin you.”

You whimper, clenching hard around him, and his groan vibrates against your breast.

“Oh my fucking god,” he chokes, voice breaking. “*You’re squeezing me so fucking tight—ngh—fuck, baby, you feel so good.”

You’re a mess now, panting, gasping, fingers threading through his damp hair, pulling him closer.

“Jake— ohhh my god—”

“Louder,” he demands, voice rough, biting just hard enough to make you cry out. “Scream for me, baby—let me fucking hear you.”

And you do.

You moan his name so loud, your body shaking beneath him, and Jake fucking loses it.

“Fuuuuck— baby—fuck, you’re gonna make me—ngh—”

His hips snap forward, pace turning desperate, his breath coming in wrecked, gasping moans as he buries himself inside you, his cock hitting so deep it makes your vision blur.

“Come with me,” he pleads, voice wrecked, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. “Fuck, please,”

The coil snaps.

Your orgasm rips through you, your walls squeezing around him so hard it has Jake shouting.

“Ohhh fuuuuck—”

His whole body trembles as he spills inside you, his hips twitching, his moans so loud, so filthy, his eyes still locked on yours even as he completely falls apart.

His thrusts stutter, erratic, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until he’s completely drained, panting, shaking, forehead pressed against yours.

A few moments pass, the air thick with heat and heavy breathing.

Then—Jake huffs a breathless laugh.

“Did you really fucking smack me?” he murmurs against your skin.

You smirk, breathless, fingers still buried in his hair. “Wouldn’t have had to if you weren’t a goddamn tit guy.”

Jake grins. “Guilty.” He kisses your collarbone, then your throat, then your jaw. “But can you blame me?”

You roll your eyes, legs still locked around his waist. “Just shut up and hold me, Jakey.”

And this time—he does.

"I think I'm falling for you," he says quietly, the words slipping out in the darkness before he can consider their implications.

You're silent for a moment, and Jake holds his breath, suddenly terrified. Then you prop yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him in the moonlight.

"I know," you say with a small smile. "Your distraction campaign has been pretty obvious."

Jake's eyes widen. "You knew?"

"Of course I knew. I've been competing with you for three years. I know how your mind works." You trace his jawline with one finger. "What I couldn't figure out was when it stopped being a strategy and started being real."

"I'm not sure I know either," Jake admits. "Maybe it was real from the beginning, and I just didn't want to admit it."

You lean down to kiss him, soft and sweet. "For what it's worth, I'm falling for you too. Even though you're still a competitive jerk sometimes."

"And you're still an academic show-off," he retorts, but he's smiling as he pulls you back down against his chest.

As you drift to sleep in his arms, Jake realizes with a start that he hasn't thought about the Harrison Fellowship once all evening. More surprisingly, he doesn't care.

-

Sunday morning brings clear skies and the reluctant awareness that their weekend escape is coming to an end. Jake wakes to find you already up, sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed with your laptop open.

"I thought there was no internet here," he says, sitting up groggily.

"There isn't," you confirm. "But I downloaded all my research documents before we left. I've been working on my fellowship application."

Jake blinks, his brain still foggy with sleep. "You... what?"

You glance at him over your shoulder. "I've been up since six. Thought I'd get some work done before you woke up."

"But this was supposed to be..." Jake trails off, realizing too late what he's about to admit.

"A way to keep me from working on my application?" you finish, arching an eyebrow. "Yeah, I figured that out about five minutes after you invited me."

Jake groans, falling back against the pillows. "Am I that transparent?"

"Only to me," you assure him, closing your laptop and crawling up the bed to kiss him. "And I came anyway, because I wanted to spend the weekend with you. But I'm still going to win that fellowship."

"You're terrifying," Jake informs you, pulling you down for a proper kiss. "And impressive."

"I know," you reply with a smirk that reminds him exactly why he's been obsessed with you for three years.

They spend their final morning at the cabin making love once more before reluctantly packing up to return to campus. The drive back is comfortable, your hand resting on Jake's thigh as he drives, the radio playing softly in the background.

As the campus comes into view, Jake feels a strange reluctance to return to reality—to classes and competition and the looming fellowship decision. The weekend has changed something fundamental between you, but he's not sure how it will translate back to real life.

"What now?" he asks as he pulls into a parking space outside your dorm.

You turn to face him, expression serious. "Now we both work our asses off on our applications, ace our finals, and see what happens. No sabotage, no distractions."

"And us?" Jake asks, surprised by how much your answer matters to him.

"Us is separate from the competition," you say firmly. "I want to be with you, Jake. But I'm still going to try to beat you in every class."

Jake laughs, relief washing over him. "I wouldn't have it any other way, princess."

You lean across the console to kiss him goodbye, lingering longer than necessary. "See you tomorrow, Jakey. I've got a fellowship application to finish."

As he watches you walk away, Jake is struck by the realization that for the first time since freshman year, he doesn't care if you beat him. He just wants you both to succeed.

-

Back at his apartment, Ethan takes one look at his face and bursts out laughing.

"Oh man, you've got it bad," he says, shaking his head. "What happened to 'Total Disruption'?"

Jake collapses onto the couch with a groan. "It all backfired. Spectacularly. She knew what I was doing the whole time."

"No shit," Ethan says, not even looking up from his game. "Everyone knew. You weren't exactly subtle."

"What do you mean everyone knew? I was totally subtle!"

Ethan pauses his game and turns to face Jake, exasperation written all over his face. "Dude. You literally canceled a meeting with your fellowship advisor because she texted asking if you wanted coffee. You've been walking around campus with this dopey smile for weeks. You drew her. Multiple times."

"That was part of the plan!" Jake protests.

"The plan you spent more time talking about than actually studying for the fellowship you supposedly care so much about?"

Jake opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. "Okay, but here's the thing—"

"No," Ethan holds up a hand. "Here's the thing. You're in love with her. You have been for weeks. Maybe months. Maybe years, who knows?"

"I just realized it today," Jake admits quietly.

"TODAY?" Ethan throws his hands up. "Oh my god. I literally told you this would happen the day you made your stupid plan! Day one, I said, 'You're going to fall for her,' and you said, 'No way, it's purely strategic.'"

"I didn't think—"

"Obviously!" Ethan's practically shouting now. "You've been so busy convincing yourself this was all some master scheme that you completely missed what everyone else could see from a mile away."

"It wasn't that obvious," Jake mutters defensively.

"You FRAMED a PHOTO of her! It's on your NIGHTSTAND!"

"That was to remind me of my enemy—"

"Oh my GOD, will you STOP?" Ethan throws a pillow that hits Jake square in the face. "Just admit it. The great Jake Sim, master strategist, completely played himself."

Jake is silent for a long moment, then sighs heavily. "Fine. You were right. I played myself. I fell for her. Hard. Are you happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Ethan deadpans. "So what's the plan now, Romeo?"

Jake stares at the ceiling, thinking about your parting words. About competition and companionship, about winning and wanting.

"The plan," he says slowly, "is to stop planning so much and just... see what happens."

"Revolutionary," Ethan rolls his eyes. "What about the fellowship?"

Jake sits up, a new determination settling over him. "I'm still going to try to win it. But not by sabotaging her—by actually earning it. And if she wins instead..." He pauses, surprised to find he means what he's about to say. "Then she deserves it."

"Who are you and what have you done with Jake Sim?" Ethan asks, though his sarcasm has softened slightly.

Jake's phone buzzes with a text from you. He checks it immediately, a smile spreading across his face at the message: Missing my Jakey already. Study date tomorrow? I'll bring the coffee if you bring those amazing notes from Richardson's lecture.

"Case in point," Ethan says, watching Jake's expression change. "Completely whipped."

"I am not—"

"Just answer your girlfriend and spare me the denial," Ethan cuts him off, turning back to his game.

Jake ignores him, typing back: It's a date, princess. I'll even let you borrow my sweatshirt again.

Your reply comes seconds later: Bold of you to assume I was planning to give the first one back.

The warmth that spreads through Jake's chest at your message is undeniable, as is the realization that his perfect plan has completely, utterly, wonderfully failed.

Because the truth—which he's finally ready to admit—is that somewhere between calculated kisses and genuine laughter, between strategic touches and real connections, Jake Sim has done the one thing he never planned on:

He's fallen in love with his greatest rival. And he couldn't be happier about it.

fin.

TL: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @kkamismom12 @princesstiti14

[afriendofblahaj]

Honestley this might be a bit of a hot take here on tumblr, and I am fully open to discuss this Ive been going back and forth and would love other opinions, but one of my opinons is that generative AI is being attacked for the crimes of capitalism and human stupidity and in an ideal world isn’t actually that bad. Before I go any further, I feel like I should clarify this is exclusively referring to AI text, and that AI art is soulless and fucking disgusting. With that said, AI generated text as a technology in a vacuum, with no other details is actually pretty cool, and a huge leap forward in our technological capabilities. If we were to understand its limitations and implement it carefully and safely, then it would be a nice addition to the tools we have. Unfortunately billionaires and corporations seized on the fact that AI has been hyped and discussed for probably 50 years if not more (this is just my gut feeling, and honestely, I’d guess 100, because “what if something non-sentient could speak like a human” is a pretty classic trope, but 50 years seems like a reasonable bet) and realised they could use this as the marketing tool of a fucking generation and hide every detail about it to present a magic box to the public.

Look, putting aside environmental issues for a moment (which I really do care about, but they are mostly from the way companies implement it, and the scale on which we are using it), in a simple sense, there is nothing objectively wrong with a computer program that can read human text, and produce text that is reasonably close to text a human might produce. The problem is that it’s used by people to lie steal and cheat, because there is 0 oversight and the people who made it are doing the exact same thing. The world wasn’t ready for the speed at which computers developed, and they moved at practically a snails pace compared to AI. If one year after the first desktop computer released we hit the point we are right now with computing, then people would be freaking the fuck out about computers the same way we are shitting bricks over AI. It happened too fast, and so we finally notice how much everything gets exploited.

With that being said, I don’t say this to encourage people to use gen Ai products (please fucking don’t) but to encourage people to consider what the actual problem is, and also it hurts to see technology discarded because of the way it’s used. It’s a slippery slope to rejecting all modern advancements, which I’ve personally seen turn into shit as far as vaccine denial (my fucking parents, long story, and this post is long enough) and while I don’t think the people reading this will go that far, it is a slippery slope to fall down, so I just like to encourage more consideration for technology, and the separation of technology from the shit it’s used for.

people are really fucking clueless about generative ai huh? you should absolutely not be using it for any sort of fact checking no matter how convenient. it does not operate in a way that guarantees factual information. its goal is not to deliver you the truth but deliver something coherent based on a given data set which may or may not include factual information. both the idolization of ai and fearmongering of it seem lost on what it is actually capable of doing

[sashayed]

ok now it is time to air my grievances with severance s2, a season of television i thoroughly enjoyed and looked forward to every week. s2 is mr milchick putting on a spectacular drumline Just For Me and what do they get for it. trapped behind a vending machine (readmore cut) while i batter them with a trombone. classic ingratitude.

my umbrella gripe btw is that showrunner dan erickson's figurative innie is actually Ricken and he won't admit it and until he does we are never going to see the show that severance Could Be. like ricken is a pretentious nightmare who is insulated from the consequences of his own actions. he's also got a fascinating way with words (fond, derogatory) and a heart that yearns for love and he is really trying to Say Something. ok well that's what this show is. accept this and reconcile with yourself Dan Erickson (or should I say DAN: SO RICKEN??? boom anagrammed!!) or keep displacing all your sins onto that one character and doom this show to eternal alienation from its own core themes.

i think we can all admit that pacing in this season sucks and they had enough time to do it better. and the thing is imo if you were really committed to storytelling you would have to cut some of the most fun/fanservicey individual scenes of the season. i can see why you might choose not to do that! like for instance the baby goats thing. i get it. it looked soooo fun to film with the baby goats. visually the pasture room is great. gwendoline christie is a gift. it's fun! but it doesn't actually uhhh serve the story to spend all that time on it. it doesn't shed any new light. "they are sacrificing the goats because lumon is a creepy cult." we KNOW they are a creepy cult. "lumon thinks innies are non-people who don't experience love and care, but they DO experience love and care and that motivates them." brother we know that too!! "ok but wasn't it all worth it for that heavyweight christie/olafsson finale fight scene." i will concede this point. that ruled.

pacing problems never worse than in "sweet vitriol," an episode i actually enjoyed more than everyone else, but it didn't need to be a standalone and in fact was badly served by the format!! many in your audience have forgotten to give a shit about ms cobel so the revelation that she invented severance doesn't hit for them. splitting her storyline up and dividing it among episodes starting earlier would have kept her more consistently in play and opened up space for underserved character arcs, like dylan aND IRVING—

—because as much fun as burving demon threesome is it is so underbaked and wastes one of the show's coolest characters. WHO IS IRVING. WHY IS HE SLEEPERAGENTING LUMON. you're gonna put him on a train to the farm for old dogs and be like "all was well because love is more important than revenge :)" ??? like sure but again it DOESN'T HIT because it doesn't require the viewer to struggle with WHAT IRVING'S DRIVING FORCE ACTUALLY WAS. and he doesn't even get to kiss. let him kiss!!!!

I actually think having reintegration move at an unpredictable pace and having its side effects be unclear is not the worst idea, and in fact as an allegory for like, real life healing and becoming a Whole Person i maybe even prefer it. but the pacing problems move it beyond "this process is unfolding gradually and erratically" into "we have forgotten this is happening" and it just didn't have to be that way, man. side note there is something fascinating going on with helly's uncomfortable, unwilling quasi-reintegration from the innie side! from the moment she finds herself in front of that gala to hearing jame say he doesn't love his daughter, she is accepting the fact that SHE IS HELENA. she is thinking about how She as a first-person experiencer of the world could find herself in helena's position (which helena—who is less of a grownup than her innie—is still unable/unwilling to do). i've read some criticism of that final scene (which i loved btw) that was like "helly's goal has always been to dismantle lumon, why would she give that up for A Man? wouldn't she push mark s. out the door and be like BURN THIS PLACE TO THE GROUND?" sure, but i think that doesn't engage with helly's arc either—which is not about revolutionary conviction OR about A Man but about about discovering that SHE wants to live, she doesn't want to hang herself in the elevator out of spite, she wants her half-a-life even if it means a degree of complicity with her evil outie. on the other hand, does the WRITING actually engage with helly's arc? or am i getting all that from britt lower??

speaking of making actors do all the work: we as a show are going to grapple with corporate racism and the Black experience :) no we're not :) or are we? ;) you're welcome :)))

i don't love gemma's backstory boiling down to Woman Want Baby. "Greatest Agony for Woman Is Want Baby and Can't Have Baby" is a storyline that makes me personally grimace. but i accept that that's a personal preference and honestly dichen lachman sells her character/s so beautifully that i didn't even remember to bitch about it when i originally wrote this. i just remembered it and had to edit this post because god forbid i don't complain about something. (although. now that i AM complaining about it: putting someone through three years of torture and then being like "we'll prove this fresh consciousness is unaffected by suffering by going all the way back to the baby thing, because 'no baby,' not years of torture and isolation, is the fundamental pain at the root of this woman's being," is...........a choice!!!!! it's a choice. and if it were a deliberate narrative choice, like if it were about how the lumon ideology fundamentally conceives of women, that would be one thing! but i just don't think it is.)

did i mention i really liked this season and had a great time. i did. i am bitching about it because i have a fun time rotating it in my mind. maybe it's actually very brave and artistic to make a show that is not as well-crafted as it could be because then you are opening up intellectual/creative space for your viewers. what about that. if you think about it maybe a slightly less good show is better than a great show. in a way. checkmate haters

[borathae]

It's Gonna Be Okay | MYG x f.Reader

“Life’s gonna be okay as long as you have Yoongi by your side.”

Pairing: Yoongi x f.Reader

Genre: established relationship!AU, Fluff, Comfort

Warnings: she struggles with her people pleasing tendencies, and he is there for her, this is honestly so comforting, i wrote this solely for me bahahaha

Wordcount: 1.4k

a/n: i'm such a people pleaser and it's gonna be death of me one day JFJADFJ i wrote this because i was struggling with something and i needed my comfort boongie to tell me that everything is gonna be okay again. i could have kept this private but i wanted to share it with you besties just in case somebody needs to hear the same things <3 if i can comfort only one person with this story, i'm already happy 🧡

You are feeling anxious. To the point where you are pacing and biting your nails. You have a problem and it’s really ruining your quality of life. And you know the only thing which will help. Your boyfriend.

Yoongi, said boyfriend, is currently in the garden, taking care of the lawn.

“My love?”

“Yes, princess?” He sets the scythe aside, giving you his full attention.

“Can I talk to you? I’m struggling with something right now and I can’t handle it alone.”

“Of course you can talk to me. What’s wrong, my love?” He instantly agrees, dropping the scythe and his gloves.

“Can I get a hug first?”

“Of course. Come here.”

He closes the distance to give you a hug.

He is hot and sweaty from working outside in the sun, but you don’t really mind. His hug feels so good.

“Is this helping?”

“Yeah, thank you. You’re so warm.”

“I know, sorry. I’m sweating, it’s disgusting.”

“No, it’s okay. I don’t mind your sweat.”

“You’re weird.”

You snicker, snuggling closer. Yoongi chuckles, petting the back of your head.

“Can you really squeeze me just once? Like, really really hard?”

Yoongi listens, squeezing you in his strong arms and against his chest. Not hard enough to hurt you, but still with enough strength that you feel the pressure. It squeezes a sound of relief out of you.

“Harder.”

He increases the pressure.

“Wow, yes.”

Yoongi smiles to himself. He feels very needed right now and this is a nice feeling to experience. Especially when he knows that he is useful for you, his beloved princess.

You exhale deeply, “okay, I’m good. Thank you. You can step back now.”

“Okay, princess.”

He kisses your cheek before stepping back. He keeps contact with you by rubbing your upper arms and giving you eye contact.

“Thank you. You just changed me.”

He chuckles, “whenever you need it again.”

“Yeah, thankies. Can I tell you my problem now?”

“Of course, tell me.”

“Can we walk? I can’t stay still.”

“Sure. Let’s walk. It’s perfect weather for a walk.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to hold hands?”

“Yes, so much.”

So you and he hold hands, wandering through the big garden side by side.

“Now tell me.”

“I’m literally so stressed out. I don’t know what to do. You know the magic convention in Belgium I got an invitation for?”

“I do. Yeah. You are very excited for it.”

“Okay so, you know how I wanted to meet up with someone there?”

“Yes.”

“Cool okay. Now I’m literally losing my mind because the one witch coven goes to it too and they asked if we should drive there together and I said yes. And now they want to book an apartment together too, but I already planned to book the other one.”

“Oh no.”

“It’s stressing me out because now I’m scared that I’m gonna fuck it up. The coven said that they will share an apartment which means no privacy for me.”

“A fucking nightmare.”

“It’s the worst thing ever. But I’m scared that I will fuck it up with the coven if I only drive with them but not stay in the apartment.”

“I see.”

“Another thing. The coven already talked about getting no sleep and partying all four days. And this makes me want to cry.”

“So why are you even considering this option?”

“Because I’m scared that they’re gonna think of me badly because I only drive with them but don’t stay at the same place. And because I want to meet other people too. I just don’t wanna be seen as an ass or disappoint them.”

“And why should you compromise your boundaries and comfort like that?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sure that anyone in the coven wouldn’t feel bad for meeting other people at the convention. They would also book a private room if they felt like it. You don’t have to feel bad for doing normal adult stuff.”

“But I-”

“No buts, my love, making yourself palpable to other people shouldn’t mean at the cost of your own comfort. You said that the apartment situation would be a nightmare for you and you’re allowed to make this trip comfortable for you.”

“You think so? What if people don’t get it?”

“Then they don’t get it and they can get fucked. Your comfort matters, my love. Do what makes you most comfortable and which makes you look forward to this trip rather than tread it.”

“So it doesn’t make me a bad person?”

“Not at all. It makes you a person with boundaries and if anyone can’t respect that, they’re showing their true face and you can be glad.”

“Because I can cut them out of my life?”

“Exactly. Because you can remove them from your life. People who respect you, will also respect your boundaries and your decisions. Anyone else?”

“Can get fucked.”

“Exactly. Good job, princess. I’m proud of you.”

You giggle, hugging his waist. He stops and hugs you back, rubbing your back slowly.

“Thank you for saying this and for helping me. It’s so stupid but even now I only feel confident in my decision because you told me that I’m allowed to. Why am I like this? Why do I need to hear that it’s okay to do something before I do it?”

“Because you were constantly forced to regulate your parents’ emotions at the price of pushing your own down.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to go this deep.”

“No, it’s okay. You’re right.”

“If it helps, I’m officially giving you permission to do whatever makes you most comfortable from now on and to always fight for your boundaries.”

You smile, “yeah, it helps. Thank you for being so patient with me and for always saying the right things.”

“I love you, princess. I’ll always be patient with you. And for the right thing? I try to bullshit until I get it right.”

He is being funny right now in hopes of making you laugh and it works. You laugh. Yoongi laughs with you, cradling your cheek.

“I like your bullshit. It’s very great.”

“Thanks. I try.”

You lean into his touch, eyes softening.

“And I like you. So much.”

“I like you too, my princess.”

“I want to kiss your lips. Can I?”

He gives you his answer by closing the distance for a gentle kiss. You deepen it just a little by giving his lower lip a soft suck. One he really enjoys with a throaty purr and his thumb caressing your cheek.

You truly charm him by tugging on his lower lip as you break the kiss. His eyes are soft and completely enamored by you.

“This was nice”, he whispers.

“It was.” You caress his cheeks. “You’re so handsome.”

“Thank you. You’re beautiful.”

“Heh. Yoongi, can we walk some more or do you have to get back to your lawn?”

“No, we can walk.”

You and he hold hands.

“I have another question.”

“Tell me.”

“Do you sometimes compromise your boundaries for me?”

“I wouldn’t say so. I like to push my boundaries with you because you make me feel safe and I can grow this way. You know how closed up I was at first, how I didn’t even wanna be touched or looked at. So I definitely pushed them as far as intimacy is concerned, but I did it willingly and because I wanted to feel better.”

“I see.”

“Why?”

“No, just so. I don’t know. I think I’m feeling insecure. I got scared that you only agree to my walks or kisses to please me.”

“That’s not true. I agree to them because they make you happy and they make me happy too. I wanna spend time with you and kiss you. It’s important to me.”

You exhale deeply, “thank you. For being patient.”

“Don’t thank me. You were patient with me too when I was still weird about sex or even cuddles.”

“Of course I was. You’re my love and I want you to be comfortable.”

“I feel the same about you.”

You look at him as if he was your entire world and Yoongi reciprocates it.

“Come here”, he says because he knows instinctively what you crave the most right now. You sink into his embrace, hugging him tightly. It will always be okay again with Yoongi by your side.

[ithilien-writes]

here have some fic about it actually

-

Would It? [Buck/Eddie, T, ~1k]

He keeps thinking about it, is the problem. It's like now that Tommy put the thought in his head, it just keeps bouncing around inside his skull, like the old dvd logo that used to show up when you paused a movie for too long. It's not even about Tommy though, not really. If anything, their last encounter just solidified the fact that he doesn't actually know anything about Buck. That he never cared to.

But Maddie, on the other hand.

It wouldn't be so crazy.

So it's his sister's voice, really, that's been echoing inside his head for weeks now. When he wakes up in the morning. When he gets off of a call with Eddie and Chris. When he finds something of Eddie's still mixed in with his stuff at the house. When he looks across the station loft for Eddie and finds Ravi instead.

It wouldn't be so crazy.

It makes him feel... angry, honestly. Not at Maddie, he doesn't think. But angry all the same. Because it would be crazy! It would be crazy. It would be stupid and crazy and... pathetic. Which Buck is not.

He's just pissed off.

"Well, sorry I'm not Eddie!" Ravi says, throwing his arms up when Buck snaps at him for the third time that morning about not sticking to Buck's system as they stock.

Buck feels his now constant, low-simmering anger flare up all at once, bright and hot, but before he's even managed two steps towards him, Hen is there between them, her hand on Buck's chest.

"Okay Buck, walk it off," she tells him. It's not a suggestion.

So Buck takes the stairs up to the roof three at a time and then paces under the early morning sun, quietly seething.

And that's, of course, exactly when Eddie calls him.

"I didn't expect you to pick up," Eddie's voice comes over the line, warm and soft in Buck's ear. "I would've facetimed. I thought you were on shift."

"I am," Buck says, shorter than he might have in other circumstances. "But we haven't been out on any calls yet."

There's a beat before Eddie responds, and when he does his voice is tinged with concern.

"Okay, what's going on?" he asks. "You sound- Is everything okay?"

Buck blows out a breath.

"Yeah," he says, running a hand through his hair. "Ravi was just being annoying earlier, it's fine."

Eddie snorts a little.

"Yeah, you sound fine," he says sarcastically.

"I have a system for a reason!" Buck explodes, hand coming out of his hair as he gestures frenetically, even though Eddie can't see him. "I've explained it like a hundred times by now. It's not that complicated."

"Well, it's a little complicated," Eddie disagrees with a small chuckle, his voice still warm. "Maybe give him a minute."

Buck deflates a little, stopping his pacing to lean back against the outer ledge of the rooftop. He lets out another heavy breath.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" he hears himself ask, after a beat. "O-or like. Pathetic?"

"What?" Eddie's voice comes back sharp. "Did Ravi say that?"

"No, no- I just. Maddie said something to me the other day, and I- sh-she didn't mean it like that but... I can't stop thinking about it," he admits softly.

Eddie hums over the line.

"What did Maddie say?"

"Just- it doesn't matter," Buck mutters. "She was just- Tommy said something and then she was sort of agreeing with him-"

"Wait, Tommy?" Eddie cuts in. "When did you talk to Tommy?"

Buck feels himself flush, suddenly embarrassed.

"A-a few weeks ago," he says. "We just ran into each other. At a bar. It wasn't like I planned it! But I was already a little drunk by then, and he was talking about how he'd been wanting to call me, so. I don't know. We ended up... hooking up."

"Why am I just now hearing about this?" Eddie asks. "Are you getting back together?"

"No!" Buck says quickly. "No, it was nothing like that. Or well- maybe it was starting to- um. He did bring it up, I guess, after. But then he said... the thing he said. And then I said some things too, and uh, yeah. I- I doubt I'm gonna hear from him again anytime soon."

"What did he say?" Eddie asks, the edge back in his voice.

Buck makes a motion to wave away the question with his hand, as if Eddie can actually see him.

"That's not important," he says again. "The point is, I told Maddie about it, w-what he said, and she asked if he was right! A-and then when I said of course not because that would be ridiculous, she said it wouldn't be so crazy."

"Buck," Eddie says, slightly exasperated, "you know I'm gonna need a little more context here."

There's just silence then, for a few long moments.

"It just sucks," Buck manages eventually. "You being gone."

"Yeah," Eddie agrees, voice slightly rougher. "It does."

Buck hears him clear his throat slightly.

"But that doesn't mean I can't still help," he says. "Come on, man. Tell me what's really going on."

Buck wonders if he knows how much it already helps, just hearing his voice.

It wouldn't be so crazy.

"Uh, I- I should go," Buck says, after a moment. "I left Ravi stocking by himself and I'm gonna have to fix everything he's done, so."

"Buck-" Eddie tries again, but Buck doesn't let him. Not this time.

"I'll call you later," he promises - lies, maybe - before hanging up.

He feels the ache in his chest - the one that's been there ever since he watched Eddie drive away - like it's suddenly pushing out against his ribcage. Something almost feral, gnawing at his bones, trying to escape.

But he can't. He can't.

"It would be. Crazy," he says aloud, stubbornly, to an audience of absolutely no one. Feels the shape of the words in his mouth. Listens to the way they sound in the early morning stillness of LA.

It's not particularly convincing.

no but seriously maddie's "it wouldn't be so crazy" is !!!!! like that's his sistermom. that's the person who knows him the best outside of eddie. and she is always so careful not to tell buck how he's feeling so she's not gonna literally say "actually i've always wondered.." but this was her basically saying exactly that!! like. that just happened. buck said he's not in love with eddie and maddie said well.. are we sure though?

[starrdream]

anakin headcanons please I feel like he is such a sweetheart

absolutely

Anakin cannot sit still. If he’s not pacing, spinning his lightsaber absentmindedly, or drumming his fingers against the nearest surface. The only time he’s truly still is when he’s asleep.

Anakin is touch starved. He doesn’t even realize how much he craves physical affection until someone gives it to him. He absolutely loves any kind of physical contact, especially from you.

Anakin is absolutely terrible at hiding his emotions. He thinks he’s good at masking his feelings. He’s not. If he’s annoyed, his entire face will scrunch up. If he’s happy, he grins like an idiot.

Anakin hates fighting with you. But he’s emotional and sometimes reacts first, thinks later. If he raises his voice and sees you flinch? Immediate guilt. He will apologize. But it takes him a minute to calm down first. He never wants to go to sleep angry at you—he can’t. Arguments with him are brutal but rare and the apologies are raw and real.

Anakin's love language? All of them. He'll do anything for you, let's be real. Broken kitchen appliances, lightsaber malfunctioning, com link not working..He's fixing it for you (acts of service). He loves to spend time with you. He'll tag along just about anywhere. (quality time). etc..

Anakin needs constant reassurance He needs to hear you tell him that you love him. He needs to be reminded that he is worthy of your affection, especially after a fight or a stressful situation. If you tell him you love him, he holds on to those words like a lifeline. He’ll replay them in his mind, constantly seeking that validation.

Anakin would not come to you with his problems in the beginning of your relationship. He’s far too prideful, fiercely independent, and conditioned to believe he has to handle everything himself. Overtime he does crack and he absolutely hates it. "If you knew everything about me, you wouldn’t want to be here." He tends to withdraw from you after opening up, convinced you see him as weak and unworthy of your attention.

Anakin's your biggest supporter. It doesn't matter what you're doing, Anakin is right there cheering you on. He believes in you—deeply. He’ll also be the one to celebrate your victories with you, no matter how big or small, because he knows how much effort you put in.

Anakin may not always be romantic, but he’s thoughtful. He remembers the small things—the book you read, the song you love...He will go out of his way to surprise you with things that'll make you feel loved. It’s not grand gestures all the time, but rather the meaningful moments. "I heard this song and thought of you. It’s silly, but I wanted to share it."

Anakin will also make sure you’re always taken care of, whether it’s making sure you’re well-rested or helping with a problem before you even ask. "I just want you to be happy. I’ll do whatever I can to make that happen."

Hope u guys like it! Lmk if u want a part 2

[whosyourmommy69]

Broken promises Pt1

You’re sitting on the couch, your fingers nervously twisting the hem of your shirt as you glance at the clock. It’s past midnight. Rafe was supposed to be here hours ago.

You’d texted him twice, called once, and there’s been nothing but silence. Your stomach churns, the familiar feeling of disappointment sinking deeper into your chest.

It’s been like this for a while now. Every time you think things might be turning around, every time he seems like he’s showing you a glimpse of the guy you used to know, he slips back into old habits. The late nights. The excuses. The friends that always seem to pull him away at the last minute, and the drugs that keep him distant, unreachable.

Your phone vibrates on the coffee table, pulling you from your thoughts. You reach for it, hoping, praying that it’s him.

But it’s a text from your friend, asking if you’re okay.

You sigh and drop the phone back onto the table. You're tired of pretending everything is fine. You’re tired of hoping things will change.

You’re not even sure when you started losing yourself in this relationship, but you feel it now. Like a slow erosion of who you were before him. You were strong, independent. But now? You don’t even recognize the reflection in the mirror anymore.

You stand up, pacing the room, trying to shake the tension out of your body. You don’t want to be the girlfriend who constantly nags or questions his actions. You’ve tried to play it cool, let him do his thing, trust him, believe him when he says he’ll be there for you.

But deep down, you know it’s just words. Always just words.

The door creaks open, and your heart skips a beat. It’s Rafe, finally stumbling through the door with a look on his face that’s half irritation, half apology. His eyes are bloodshot, his movements sloppy, like he’s not quite sure where he’s been or how he got here.

"Hey," he says, his voice a little too casual for your liking, like he hasn’t just kept you waiting for hours, wondering if something had happened to him. "Sorry, I lost track of time."

You raise an eyebrow, arms crossed over your chest. "Track of time? Rafe, it's almost 1 AM. You didn’t even bother to answer my calls."

He shrugs, tossing his jacket onto the chair as he walks past you toward the kitchen. "I was with the guys. You know how it is. We were just—" He pauses, running a hand through his messy hair. "We were just hanging out."

You can smell it now, the weed, which always meant something more. That familiar, sharp scent of something that always makes your stomach tighten with anxiety. Your mind races. How many times has he done this? How many times has he chosen them, his friends, his habits over you?

You feel your heart sink even lower. "And you couldn’t even send a text? You couldn’t just let me know you were okay? I was sitting here, Rafe, thinking something happened to you."

His face tightens at your words, but he doesn’t look at you, digging through the fridge like he hasn’t just shattered your trust all over again. "I didn’t think you’d care that much."

The words hit you like a slap, sharp and cold. It’s not just the fact that he’s late, or that he’s high again. It’s the way he makes you feel like you’re the problem. Like your feelings don’t matter. Like everything else comes first.

You swallow the lump in your throat, but it’s no use. "Are you serious right now?" you ask, your voice shaky. "You didn’t think I’d care? You’ve been blowing me off for weeks now. Every time I need you, you’re with them. Or you’re high. Or you’re somewhere else."

Rafe spins around, his expression shifting. The familiar anger starts to creep into his voice. "Don’t start with me, okay? I’m just trying to have some fun. It’s not like you care anyway."

You flinch, the words stinging more than you expected. "That’s not fair, Rafe. I care too much, and that’s the problem."

He rolls his eyes and turns back to the fridge, popping open a can of beer. "God, here we go again. You’re acting like I’m doing something wrong just because I want to hang out with my friends. Get over yourself."

Your breath catches in your throat, the frustration bubbling over. "You know what? Fine," you snap, voice rising. "Maybe I should get over myself. Maybe I should stop caring about someone who doesn’t give a damn about me."

He slams the fridge door shut and turns to face you, his expression darkening. "Don’t pull that shit with me. You think you can just walk away every time you get upset? You think you can just—" He takes a step toward you, his voice escalating. "—control me? Because you can’t."

You’re frozen for a moment, every muscle in your body tightening with that all-too-familiar fear. You want to fight. You want to scream at him. But the words get caught in your throat, trapped by the weight of everything, all the times he’s let you down. All the promises he’s broken.

Instead, you just stand there, unable to breathe, staring at the man you thought you knew. The man who used to make you feel safe and loved, but now, all he makes you feel is insignificant.

"I can’t keep doing this," you whisper, the words so quiet they barely make it past your lips. But they’re enough. "I can’t keep chasing you, Rafe. I’m not going to be here every time you decide to show up when you feel like it."

Rafe stares at you for a long moment, something dark flashing in his eyes. Then, with a bitter laugh, he shakes his head. "Whatever. If you can’t handle it, then leave."

You open your mouth to respond, but the words die in your throat. Because you realize, as much as you want to stand your ground, you’re terrified. Terrified that he’ll push you away, terrified that he won’t care when you finally walk out that door.

You don’t say anything. You can’t. So instead, you just turn away and walk to the door, the sound of his laughter following you as you step out into the cold, your heart shattered all over again.

[issues4him]

Omggg pls bluecollar!rafe and reader trying to have a quickie at like thansgiving or something like that

quickie at thanksgiving with blue collar!rafe <3

cw: smut 18+

rafe’s aunt deb’s house was packed. laughter from the living room, football blasting on the tv, dishes clinking in the kitchen, and the smell of turkey and cinnamon everywhere. every room was full of someone—cousins, in-laws, rafe’s grandma asking if the rolls were burning again. and rafe? he was being a problem.

you should’ve known the minute he walked through the door wearing that damn flannel—sleeves rolled up, chest straining the buttons, jeans low on his hips, hat turned backwards. his hand found your lower back immediately. then your waist. then, too casually, the curve of your ass as he leaned in and whispered, “don’t know why you wore this dress…didn’t think you’d wanna get bent over the washing machine here.”

you turned to glare at him, cheeks already warm, “rafe cameron! your entire family is in this house.” you whisper yelled at him.

“and they ain’t in the laundry room, are they?” he muttered, walking away like he hadn’t just dropped that bomb in your ear. you tried to ignore it. really, you did. but the tension built all through dinner—his thigh brushing yours under the table, his hand resting on your leg, his breath on your neck when he reached past you for the gravy.

by the time dessert was passed around, your skin was buzzing, heart racing. you needed air. or maybe just him. so you slipped away, and a minute later—you heard those familiar boots down the hall behind you.

laundry room. door shut. lock clicked.

before you could say a word, rafe had you backed against the washer, one hand gripping your thigh, the other sliding up your spine, bunching your dress to your hips.

“you’re trouble,” he murmured, lips brushing yours, “draggin’ me in here like this…”

“i did not drag you in here, you followed me,” you breathed.

he grinned. “damn right i did.”

his kiss was messy and hot, all tongue and teeth, his hand slipping beneath your panties, rough fingertips dragging themselves between your soaked folds. your breath hitched as he mouthed down your neck, groaning when he realized just how ready you already were for him.

“already soaked,” he muttered against your throat. “barely had to touch you.” his fingers moved in tight circles over your clit, his stare somehow adding to the pleasure.

“rafe,” you gasped, nails curling into his arms.

“i got you, baby.” you barely had time to respond before he was spinning you, bending you slightly over the edge of the dryer, tugging your panties down with one hand, fumbling with his belt with the other.

every sound was too loud—his belt clanking loose, his zipper being undone, the way he grunted when he sank into you, the soft thud of his palm on your lower back, steadying you.

“shit—” he growled, voice strained. “you feel so good, mama.”

every movement was sharp, precise, teeth-grittingly deep. his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back onto him, his other hand slipping beneath your dress, gripping tight to your hip. he was trying to stay quiet—trying so hard—but you could hear the way his breath stuttered, the low, deep grunts against your ear.

“you better keep that pretty mouth shut,” he murmured, his fingers coming up to hook into your mouth. “or they’re gonna know exactly what i’m doin’ to ya’ in here.”

you clawed at the dryer, desperate to find some relief rather than screaming his name. his cock moved in and out, so slick from your arousal. the dryer was rattling behind you. your thighs were shaking. his name kept catching in your throat, and your fingers were digging into the collar of his flannel, desperate and aching.

he cursed against your neck as you started to fall apart, his pace stuttering as your body squeezed around him, teeth catching the skin on your shoulder as he whispered, “fuck—i shoulda’ pulled you in here hours ago…this little pussy feels so good.” only then did he let go. with one final thrust, one long, ragged groan, he collapsed against your back, hand splayed across your stomach.

you leaned against the dryer, still breathless, still trembling, as rafe tucked himself back into his jeans, one hand bracing the dryer, the other dragging down your dress slow—way too slow.

“stop looking at me like that,” you muttered, cheeks flushed, heart still racing.

he grinned, smug as hell, brushing his thumb across your swollen lower lip. “what? you just look real pretty after i’ve fucked you, is all.”

you rolled your eyes, breath hitching again when his hand smoothed down the back of your thigh, straightening your panties like it was the most casual thing in the world. he reached for your hair, gently trying to tame it—then gave up, chuckling softly under his breath.

“yeah,” he murmured, pressing one last kiss to your temple. “you’re gonna get me caught.”

“me?!” you swatted his chest playfully, “you were the loud one!”

“hey—i was just hungry,” he said, smug. “and not for turkey.”

[the-offside-rule]

Sam Winchester (Supernatural) - Deal with a Demon

Requested: yes

Prompt: Sam meets a cross road demon to make a deal and is given the opportunity of a lifetime

Warnings: mentions of blood, demon

The moon hung low in the sky, painting the abandoned crossroads in pale light. Sam Winchester paced, his boots crunching the gravel beneath his feet. Finally, he stopped, drew a deep breath, and opened the small tin in his hand. The contents? A mix of graveyard dirt, bone ash, and blood, all emptied into the center of the crossroads. As he finished the ritual, he took a step back, waiting.

And then she appeared.

She stepped out of the shadows with a sway in her hips, her gaze sharp and predatory as she looked Sam up and down. She was striking—dark eyes glinting with amusement, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "Well, well." She purred, folding her arms over her chest. "I’ve never met a Winchester before. I’ve only heard of you." Sam shrugged, trying to keep his tone nonchalant despite the nerves crawling up his spine. "I hope I can live up to what you’ve heard."

The demon’s lips curled into a wider grin as she tilted her head. "Oh, I’m sure you’ll manage. Now-" She took a step closer, her heels clicking against the gravel. "What does one of the infamous Winchesters need from little old me?"

Sam exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. "I want to make a deal." Her brow arched with genuine curiosity. "A deal? You don’t strike me as the type to go handing over your soul so easily. I would’ve thought I would meet your brother first."

"It's not for me." He clarified, his tone earnest. "There’s a demon on the loose, one that’s too powerful for anyone to stop it, the colt is out of bullets, and-" He hesitated, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I’m out of options."

At this, the demon barked out a laugh, an almost musical sound that sent a chill up Sam’s spine. "I'm sorry. Sam Winchester, the anti-Christ prodigy, needs me to deal with a demon?" She grinned wickedly, leaning toward him. "What’s wrong, Sam? All out of miracles?" Sam rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "I’m not the anti-Christ. I’m only human."

"See-" She teased, wagging her finger playfully. "There’s your problem. You Winchesters forget that little detail sometimes." Sam’s expression darkened, frustration etched into his features. "Are you going to help me or not?" She tapped her chin in mock consideration, her eyes dancing with mischief. "You’re lucky I’m in a generous mood tonight, Sam. I’ll help you." Sam blinked, surprise flickering across his face. "Just like that?"

"Well." She purred. "It’s not like you’re offering me much of a challenge here." She took a step closer, invading his space as her voice dropped into something silkier. "But… I’m curious. What do you think I should get in return?" Sam frowned, cautious. "Whatever you want." The demon’s grin widened as she pretended to think, her finger trailing absently over her bottom lip. Finally, her eyes locked on his, and she smiled sweetly, too sweetly. "I want to see you again, Sam. On better terms. Maybe next time, you’ll be asking me for something more useful."

Sam blinked, visibly caught off guard. "Wait… that’s it?" She shrugged nonchalantly, though her tone was firm. "Unless you want something else?" He looked at her in disbelief. "You're name for one. I'd like to know who I am dealing with."

"Well, that changes things then." She leaned in, her face just inches from his, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "If I tell you my name, you obviously need to kiss me to seal the deal, but instead of your soul, I would like you to make a promise to me that we’ll meet again—one way or another." Sam’s brows furrowed, clearly torn between confusion and suspicion. "You’re not asking for my soul?"

The demon chuckled, shaking her head. "Not today, Sammy. Take the deal, or don’t. Your call." Sam sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked her in the eye, the weight of his decision hanging between them. "Name first." She smiled. "Well, who am I to deny a pretty boy such as yourself." She held her hand out, a smile on her face as he eyed her hand. "Y/n." He sighed, lifting his hand to take hers. "You have your deal, Y/n."

She grinned victoriously, slipping her hand into his. The handshake sent a jolt through Sam, cold and electric, before she pulled him closer. Her hand rested on his cheek as she leaned in, pressing her lips softly to his. It was a fleeting kiss, but enough to make Sam’s heart skip uncomfortably. She stepped back with a smug smile. "Well, nice to see the rumours are true." She said, wiping her thumb against her lower lip. "And what's that?" He asked. "You just kiss so well." A blade appeared in her hand, its dark surface glinting in the moonlight. She held it out to him, her eyes glinting with something unreadable. "This blade will kill anything, archangel, demon, you name it."

Sam took it carefully, staring at the weapon in awe. "Thanks. Thank you, so much." Y/n's expression softened slightly, though her smirk lingered. "I should be thanking you. But until next time, Sam Winchester." And with that, she disappeared into the night, leaving behind nothing but the faint scent of sulfur.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Sam walked into the motel room, the blade tucked safely under his jacket. Dean was sprawled on one of the beds, cleaning his gun when he looked up, immediately narrowing his eyes. "Where’d you get that?" Dean asked, nodding to the weapon. "Don’t worry about it." Sam muttered, setting the blade down on the table. Dean’s brow furrowed, a knowing look crossing his face. "You didn’t—" He sat up straighter, pointing a finger at his brother. "You didn’t summon a crossroad demon, did you?"

Sam sighed, rubbing his temple. “Dean—”

"Come on, man! You said you were going to grab some food!" Dean cut him off, his voice firm. "How long did they give you?" Sam hesitated before shaking his head. "It wasn’t like that. She didn’t ask for my soul." Dean stared at him incredulously. "What, was it her first day or something? She forget that part?"

"She didn’t want my soul." Sam repeated, his voice quieter. "She just…wanted to see me again." For a beat, Dean just stared at him, processing. Then, slowly, a grin crept onto his face. "Hold on; are you dating demons again, Sammy?" Sam groaned, dropping into the chair across from Dean and scowling. "I’m not dating her." Dean laughed, shaking his head as he leaned back against the headboard. "That’s a new one, man. Next thing I know, you’re gonna be bringing her home for dinner."

Sam shot him a glare, but Dean just chuckled again, clearly amused. "Well, you always had weird taste." Sam sighed, staring down at the blade on the table. "Let’s just focus on killing this demon first, okay?" Dean smirked, grabbing a beer from the nightstand. "Whatever you say, lover boy."

Sam groaned again, but he couldn’t help the faint tug of a smile as he thought about the crossroads demon and her parting words. Something told him this wouldn’t be the last time he saw her.

[nottsangel]

https://www.tumblr.com/nottsangel/778392967247527936/lmfaooo-the-fact-neither-theo-and-mattheo-will

OMGGG THANK YOU FOR BRINGING THIS UPPP 😖😖 I didn’t know if anyone was going to match my freak w this one but omgg YESSS

Imagining a conformed throuple, I see them having such a fragile masculinity about this at first LOL, like, not even a word about it bc it won’t happen, just you bringing the idea to them would make them laugh bc “why would I do that when we have you here?”

I think their only problem with it would be being in the receiving end lmao, like, at first they’d think it would make them less manly or smth

But then one day you just don’t feel like having sex for whatever reason, and they’re NEEDY (I mean, they always are right?)

They, alone in one of their dorms, doing literally anything to try and not think about how much they need to fuck and how hard they are, until one of them brings up jokingly “damn, we really could do each other” and they laugh, till they’re not and end up in bed jerking off each other 🙏🏻

Oh and it evolved quickly too

First they just jerked off each other when they couldn’t just have you, then they’d go down, and one day they would be literally doing rock paper scissors to decide who would be fucking who

And of course they didn’t tell you about any of this, so when you walk into the dorm and see one of your boyfriends panting, red-faced and looking all fucked-out, his head pushed in the pillows from your other boyfriend’s grip on his hair as he moves at an almost animalistic pace against him, god, you don’t even know what the fuck is going on

🪬

SSJDJDJD THIS IS SO HOT

until one of them brings up jokingly “damn, we really could do each other”

this is so mattheodore PLEASE

…so uhm. is this where i admit that im sooo into voyeurism. like i just wanna watch them so fucking bad. i don’t need to join, i don’t need to get off, i don’t need to cum. i just wanna watch those two boys go at it

[goldom]

Ave Mujica ep 12

How can there only be two left? With the massive popularity of this show among non-prior-Bandori fans, I have to imagine they're going to get another season eventually, but I wonder how much of this plot is going to be left for the game to cover. At the pace the En server is going, it's gonna be a looooong time before I see that happen...

Anyway, heading in with the following thought in mind. Thanks a lot, @keichocomint

0:16 Sakiko basically turning to the camera to remind the audience,

0:33 On one hand, lol. On the other, I think this says something about the way Sakiko still views her life as a drama, a play. But I also have to wonder why she's so docilely going along with this when she's, A) had no problem standing up to grandpa before, and B) just came off of reasserting her intent to stay with the band.

1:13 okay nevermind she's not going.

1:30 splat.

I shouldn't laugh but I did. How did her shoe get all the way up there?!

1:50 welp, episode's over! What a bold, avant-garde choice to switch the series to a 2-minute short 12 episodes in.

4:04 how does this random cab driver on Remote Island recognize Sakiko when she hasn't been back in years? Also what a voice lol I half expected him to mutate into a demon or something

5:43 Surprised Hatsune is just admitting everything so quickly. Good for her. But it's really weird to see her just being normal two episodes after listening to her sing about wanting to chain up Sakiko in her attic.

7:50 I'm gonna be annoyed if they're about to reveal there never was an Uika. I know a lot of people are speculating that, but I don't like it. If there being sisters had been a plot thread all along, maybe, but not when they just revealed her 11 episodes in.

10:47 It's really a mark of great writing that I can see this line and know it's about to break Hatsune – and it immediately does.

10:54 and then in a matter of seconds, Saki's voice switches into genki mode. Historically, that has always been a facade. Will this time be any different?

11:55 She reaaaally ought to know better than to say things like this to Hatsune by this point.

12:40 what is this reminding me of. There's a famous anime scene just like this, isn't there? I can't think of it.

13:36 I feel you can see in her eyes, in this moment, the thought, "Right now, I really could steal her away and take her captive forever..."

14:38 I don't know why grandpa has any power over Hatsune at all. He's never given her anything, so why does she struggle so much to resist his orders? Just a general cultural "obey your father" sense maybe. Orrrrr does he know the actual dark secret and is holding it over her? Is there still an actual dark secret left to reveal? I'm not really sure.

15:28 This episode is playing with time of day really blatantly. I saw it before and was willing to overlook it, but now I'm sure. Between 8:35 and 8:39 the sun instantly sets upon Hatsune revealing how she got Saki's dad in trouble.

And now again, they sneak into the Togawa mansion in the middle of the night, but the instant they stand up to the man and walk back outside, it's broad daylight.

The thematic meaning is obvious, but it's almost so over-the-top as to make me start questioning the reality of what I'm seeing.

15:50 He's just a little guy!

16:52 They forgot Umiri ;_;

But also… look at these girls? They look to have suddenly de-aged by years. Combined with how they were just acting like playful little kids in the garden, I have to assume that's intentional as well. With the shadows of their past exposed, it's like they're free to be children again.

17:02 Oh, they don't have outlines in this scene. That's why they look so soft.

17:07 I'm just glad I don't read online discourse because it's gonna be insufferable on both sides for months. It's a really complicated situation – and absurd in a way only possible in fiction – so yknow what, I don't hate this, but at the same time, it's like, reality's gonna come crashing back in soon.

17:40 And Hatsune admitting the dreamlike quality of everything. She knows this moment can't last. It's the healthiest she's ever been. And I can't hate her for wanting it. I get it. If you've read my fiction, you know I get it, it's all expressing the same thing: please, just let this peace last a little longer.

17:44 It did not last long. Sakiko already waking up to the realization that Hatsune's little domestic dream life isn't what she wants. God this show is good.

18:20 I love Umiri so much

20:25 Morf spotted!

21:08 FGGGFHSRFHGHHHH I just let out the loudest cackle Saki what the hellllllllllllllllllllllllll

21:58 "WHO DO YOU THINK I AM?" Sakiiiiiiii

I am having so much fun with this show. Hate that it's already coming to an end. And unsurprisingly, next week looks like it'll mostly be a performance. Perhaps this is the best way things can go, leading back into the game: everybody's plot arcs have resolved, but their underlying issues are still lingering, leading to opportunities for further progress. I've never read ahead of the English game (in any game) but I might have to for AveMu if we won't be seeing them over here for years.

But, so, where's the real Uika? During the whole time on the island, Sakiko never went "wtf are you talking about, you don't have a sister." And she correctly identified the moment it was Hatsune that came to her. This all still feels fully in line with a real Uika actually being alive somewhere. ("They moved to the mainland," said the cab driver.)

But at the end, when Saki calls Hatsune Uika again, it feels like she's saying, "Even knowing your origin, I accept you for the person you want to be seen as," which only works if HatsUika was one body all along, not if there's still a real person out there with a stolen identity.

Who knows. Well, one of you probably does. Lately every confusion I've had has been clarified by someone in the comments within 10 minutes of posting lol.

[stirdrawsandreblaws]

this is the worst way you could have called me out and I will get revenge for it later you horrid little plantbear

anyway, OP, with the disclaimer that most of these are older bc I live under a rock these days, I do have some suggestions:

Mononoke - monster of the week type supernatural series where a medicine seller solves some grotesque problems. warning: the animation is incredible, but it can be eye-straining for some, so be aware of that going in

Natsume Yuujinchou/Natsume's Book of Friends - I would put this one in the horror-adjacent slice of life category. this series pulverized my heart multiple times--no summary, but I'll say as a xxxHolic fan I think you'll also enjoy it

Mushi-Shi - a gorgeous supernatural monster-of-the-week slice-of-life. the pacing is very intentional, though to some it feels slow and doesn't keep their attention. (despite my ADHD I did not have this issue, but thought it worth mention just in case so you were prepared)

Kyo Kara Maoh! - boy gets bullied in school and a swirlie sends him to the demon world where he accidentally becomes king of the demons, and even more accidentally gets engaged to a bratty prince who he was trying to fight with. there are a lot of good shonen demon battle antics but also a lot of slice of life comedy and absurd characters.

Dororo to Hyakkimaru-den - cyborg son of a samurai violently collecting his body parts from the demons who stole them, with the aid of a young thief.

Poco's Udon World - dude moves back to his small hometown in the wake of his father's death and ends up accidentally adopting a shapeshifting tanuki. wholesome supernatural slice of life.

Tsuritama - extremely anxious high school boy gets dragged into fishing by a self-declared space alien. shenanigans ensue.

Recs with caveats:

The Morose Mononokean - basically xxxHolic if Yuuko were a grumpy high school boy and Watanuki was slightly more chill. I haven't actually seen a ton of it yet but it seems up your alley enough I'm putting it here anyway.

Nabari no Ou - shonen series about a war to control an apathetic ninja with a powerful secret technique, which is good, but this series also has a fair bit of genderweirdness and a canon intersex character that might add another layer of interest. I have only read the manga though and, while I've heard the anime is a good adaptation, I can't say for sure.

Fruits Basket - if you watch it, please consider watching the 2001 series before the 2019 reboot. The reboot is a fuller and more accurate adaptation overall, but it skips a lot of character moments early on that were handled more completely in the 2001 series.

Special Rec (problematic fave) beneath the readmore bc god did i ramble:

Saiyuki - a loose adaptation of journey to the west (though the kanji for this read more like journey to the extreme), featuring four prettyboys with angsty backstories and a dragon that turns into a jeep fighting hordes of bloodthirsty yokai and overcoming their traumas, with an interpersonal dynamic that's half bastard coworkers, half found family.

it compels me lol. some parts of it aged poorly (esp given one of the core themes is exploring taboo) but overall I still find it to be very solid.

in my honest opinion, you should read the manga instead of watching the first few anime adaptations, due to how heavily they were censored. BUT, if you're an anime-only type, then just make sure you aren't watching the English dubs (unless you wanna hear someone shouting 'fag' every 20 seconds I guess.) also, Saiyuki, Saiyuki Reload, and Saiyuki Reload Gunlock especially are not known for their animation quality...

the anime adaptations that I think are definitely worth watching are the movie (Saiyuki Requiem), the Gaiden OVAs, and the later series Saiyuki Reload Blast. (Zeroin also seems pretty and solid, but I haven't been able to get around to that one yet)

Hope something here tickles your fancy

Hey weebs that follow me, I've been out of anime and manga circles for some time and outside of a few titles I'm starting to run low on things to try. If I give examples of what I've liked in the past, can you give suggestions on other things that are out there?

What I've liked over the years seems to be:

Samurai genre (Kenshin, Kurogane, Sword of the Stranger)

Supernatural/Horror-lite (Descendants of Darkness, Noragami, Beyond the Boundary, Inuyasha, Yu Yu Hakusho, xxxHolic, Jujutsu Kaisen, Shaman King, Shounen Omnyouji) (preferred genre I love this shit)

Fun Shounen Things (My Hero Academy, Pokémon, Haruko no Go)

Cute Shoujo slice of life things (His and Her Circumstances, Free!, Super Gals!, Land of the Blindfolded)

[justarandomhelluvablog]

Major spoilers below cut but-

also idk how other people feel about this but as much as I enjoy the animation and songs and story (and vindication on being right about both Vaggie and Husk) the pacing in this show's a fucking nightmare.

6 episodes in and we have confirmed that Husk used to be an Overlord (something a lot of us predicted bc he was a sillhouette in the Overlord lineup) and that Vaggie is/was an angel (also predicted bc of her weapon of choice and general appearance). The extermination has been revealed to Heaven (seriously why tf did they think it was a good idea to hold court with angels who didn't know?? Charlie could have mentioned the extermination at ANY time), that Lucifer is an overall dorky anxious mess of a father who thinks the hotel will fail bc he's already tried to reason with Heaven, that Heaven doesn't even know HOW to get into Heaven, and an angel has been killed (AND we know who did it)? This is infodump. The season should be longer than 8 episodes, and some of this information should have been teased throughout season one and not revealed until season 2.

Loving the Huskerdust content, don't get me wrong, and hoping we see Alastor perhaps actually becoming fond of the Hotel crew (at this point I'm sure he's there for an ulterior motive beyond "entertainment" and I enjoyed his and Lucifer's little competition for Charlie's father-affection so crossing my fingers on the Hotel becoming their own little family with Alastor (and Lucifer, too) as the overprotective father(s) lmao), and I am dying to see Husk get even a fraction of his Overlord power back and help kick Valentino's ass (ultimately I don't think Husk will be the one to overthrow Valentino but y'know I want to see him get a W) but. The timing. And two songs in multiple episodes is too much- if over half of the runtime of your episode is song, it's too much.

Anyway the point I'm trying to make is that the timing is too fast, and if Helluva Boss was fast then Hazbin is a speedrun. If this was Helluva type writing, the Vaggie thing would not have been revealed until season 2, and Husk would probably have been hinted to have been an Overlord once upon a time IN STORY, not just in promotional work, up until it's revealed. And Angel would have actually had a reaction, unless it is well known already, which considering people's reactions to him I don't think it is.

I still enjoy the show, don't get me wrong, but anyway those are just my complaints. They need to slow it down, we're getting too many secrets all at once.

..... Anyway I want to see Husk wipe the floor. Alastor kept him alive for a reason, and I doubt when he first won Husk's souls (and all the souls Husk owned, I assume) he would have given a single damn about a drunk gambling cat demon, so... I wanna know their deal.

At least with how fast this show moves I won't have to wait long to find out, huh?

[lycanlanterns]

to anyone who draws and experiences wrist pain like I do i. I figured out the blindspot to solving the pain. maybe this is obvious but whatever. im honestly I'm frustrated at myself for not knowing sooner bcs I was an athlete for so long. but what always confused and frustrated me was that no matter how much i stretched the pain wasnt going away

people always linked n shared resources to stretches and it'd give me temporary relief but not deal with the issue especially not any longer than the time it took me to stretch.

u do have to stretch. but u ALSO HAVE TO WORK OUT YOUR ARMS.

the reason we are hurting so much is because that muscle is doing a lot of repetitive and strenuous motion but the whole length of your arms and wrists aren't strong enough to withstand that much work.

u cant just stretch. buy a set of light-ish weights and just pick a set of wrist and arm workouts u like. do them often. stretch and do those work outs. i really dont even think it matters which you do I do a combination of this and this

just pick ones u like that are good for you, working out can be fun and not miserable i promise. do it. save ur wrists. my life has changed, i still feel pain but ive been able to work and not be ready to cry the next day from daring to try

[abyssalzones]

the unfortunate thing is that they really did make bill a more compelling antagonist by giving him 'feelings'. in fact I think it made him like 10x scarier but I might need time to elaborate on that in detail + not sure if I want or need to do that since he's getting more than enough attention rn

[beef-brisket]

Adam: Babe- watching the look on her fucking face was priceless!

Lucifer chuckled from his place at the kitchen table. He had just taken down another overlord and stole her contracts.

Adam: "Hand over your soul and I'll think about letting you live-" fucking- SICK, babe!

Sipping his coffee, Lucifer smiled warmly at Adam. It was nice having someone excited about his accomplishments. Some would argue that he's more excited than Lucifer.

Lucifer: Thank you, darling. I do try.

Sitting across from Lucifer, Adam stirred his coffee: I've got the next three bastards for you to go after, babe. And once you have them- fuck, you'd likely be the strongest overlord in Hell!

Lucifer: Oh? And who do you recommend being my next targets?

Adam got slightly uncomfortable. Anyone could be listening. But, of course, he had to start second-guessing when he's already given Lucifer the motivation.

Adam: Oh- uh... I shouldn't say names- the walls, floors- uh- tvs have ears.

Lucifer perked up: Tvs?

Adam nodded: ...You know that tower? With the... you know-?

Lucifer: The 'V'?

Adam: Shh! But yeah... that. Those three have a shit tone of souls on their own, but together? They run Pride... after Satan, of course.

Lucifer: You're uncomfortable. Know them personally?

Adam tensed before looking away: I've uh... done some work for one of them. When my owner kicked me out, I had nowhere to go, and I needed work. Look... all I'm saying is their the big dogs of Hell. If you want more souls, power, respect, fear- and other words, I can't be bothered thinking about them, their your guys.

Lucifer nodded: Hm, well, thank you for the recommendation, darling. And soon, I should be able to go after that Radio Demon of yours-.

Adam: Shh! Babe! Fuck! If he fucking finds out- shit...

Reaching over the table, Lucifer holds Adam's trembling hand, running his fingers over his knuckles.

Lucifer: I won't let anything happen to you, Adam. I promise.

Adam nodded, looking down into his drink. Lucifer jumped when his eyes flashed gold.

Adam: Shit-! I've got to go!

Lucifer: Uh- what's happening?

Standing from the table, he sculled his coffee: I'm being summoned, babe! You're about to watch your man at work! Well, not really, you can't come, but hopefully I won't be long!

Lucifer smiled when Adam kissed him on the cheek before disappearing in a wall of green flame.

-

Pacing the basement, Charlie bit her nail. She couldn't sell the house. Not yet. Not now.

Soon.

But, after clearing out the basement, she found a strange symbol on the floor. After a few clicks on her phone, she quickly found out who it was meant for.

A demon called the Goat.

Charlie jumped back when a wall of green flame exploded out of the symbol.

Adam: I was in the middle of my coffee-! Oh. Hey, cutie~.

Charlie stared at the giant goat demon. She could feel herself shaking, but she refused to back down.

Charlie: ...I need a deal.

Adam: Hm. No hello? Rude.

Looking around, Adam's eyes narrowed. Does this place look familiar or...?

Charlie: Oh- sorry. Hi. I need a deal.

Adam: ...Pft. Alright. Good enough. What can I do for ya~?

Charlie: I... I lost my parents... a while ago- my dad died- but my mom- she ran. Or something. I need you to find her for me. I need... I need someone... I'm- I'm alone...

Adam looked over the girl, and she looked worse for wear. She looked exhausted, like she hasn't slept in days. He actually felt sorry for her.

A little bit.

Adam: Hm. I can do that! But, I need something in return.

Charlie: I know. My soul. And you can have it.

Adam: Great! Straight to the point, I like that! Just a fair warning. I can't do my usual rock your world thing, this dick is taken.

Charlie raised an eyebrow: Rock... my world? As in...?

Adam: Fuck you. I'm great, by the way. I just can't thrse days, you know?

Charlie: ...That's... not a problem. You're uh... not my type.

Adam gasped: Excuse me?! I'm everybody's type-! Okay, fuckimg- whatever. It's fine. So, you want me to find your mommy, and in return I will own your soul. Upon your death, you'll join me in hell, blah blah blah- and be my eternal slave- not really, but it's for the speech. So! Sounds good~?

Charlie eyed the black clawed hand that reached out to her. She shouldn't do this. But... she had to.

Taking the hand in hers, she closed her eyes as that same green flame from before enshrouded her before disappearing.

Adam: Great! So, to do your little task, ima need you to break this here circle.

Glancing down, Charlie did as the demon asked. She stood back as the demon walked out of the symbol. He was... a lot bigger than she thought he would be.

Adam: So! Who's this chick I'm looking for?

Charlie swallowed: Lilith Morningstar.

Adam's eyes went wide, and his mouth started to water as soon as he heard the name. He could still feel her blood and bones running down his throat-.

Charlie: You okay? Are... you looking for her...?

Adam: Oh... uh... y-yeah! Fuck...

House husband!Lucifer summoning goat!demon Adam for personal reasons 👀

But things quickly go wrong when he accidentally releases the demon and it eats all of his food, and tries to kill his wife.

Woops 🤷

RIP Lilith lol

-

Lucifer wasn't sure about this but what else did he have to lose? Ouji boards are sold in toy stores for children, if an 8 year old can summon a demon so can he.

He just needs a break........ Lilith had been so demanding lately and he doesn't know what else to do to relax and make her happy.

Nothing seems to make her happy at the moment and when she's not happy, no one under their roof is happy.

A demon summoning might seem a bit silly or extreme, but Lucifer doesn't know what else to do. Worst case scenario it just doesn't work and he wasted $10 on a book.

Lucifer: Here goes nothing.

He drew the symbol on the floor and stood a good distance away before saying the words.

Lucifer didn't expect it to work.

But it did.

The symbol glowed a demonic red color and a tall goat demon appeared in front of him.

Lucifer: Holy shit......

Adam: Who dares-!?........ Oh my Satan you're adorable!