#SOUND LIKE THE DISCORD SOUNDBOARD SO
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i need websites to have an airhorn function you can use on people when they're not purposely rude but just inept enough not to notice that maybe their addition to the conversation isn't wanted or needed. Just a quick lil button, low effort
#crab text#discord soundboard so when That Guy comes in and talks over everyone there's a quick sharp sound. like training an animal#sidenote to self. start using the airhorn more in large group calls
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told the nerd to film it and he exported inside me instead!



pairing â tech nerd!gojo x fem reader
synopsis : you crushed on him for months, watched him dodge every advance like you were malware. so you dressed up a little, played a little dumberâand now heâs got you spread out in pixels and moaning in surround sound. worst part? you kinda want him to do it again.
tags/cw â masturbation, degradation, praise kink, dacryphilia, marking, overstimulation, explicit language, filming, voyeurism, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, power dynamics, obsession, lingerie, virgin weeb satoru, questionable but effective way of seducing ur crush. 13k wc, 18+ only, minors DNI.
a/n : plz don't nitpick about how a fashion vlog shouldn't be like that bc that's the point. toru doesn't know the difference because all he watches is 2d girls
the compressorâs peaking again.
satoru squints at the waveform, drags the threshold down two decibels, then listens back to the same three-second clip of voiceover for the tenth time. itâs a podcast intro, some wannabe influencer droning about mindfulness. he doesnât care. heâs just here to make it sound less like it was recorded in a bathroom.
âsounds like shit,â he mutters, even though itâs clean. crisp. perfectly balanced.
it doesnât feel right. nothing ever does. he tweaks the bitrate, checks the export codec, wonders if he should build a custom ffmpeg preset. maybe write a quick script to batch clean all future filesâsomething to shave off a few milliseconds of his life. his fingers hover over the keyboard, itching for efficiency, for control.
ping.
discord overlay glows in the corner of his ultrawide monitor, a neon-green intrusion on his meticulously organized desktop. he freezes. the notification pulses like a heartbeat.
you.
he stares at it, lets it sit there like itâs radioactive. doesnât even remember keeping you added. your usernameâsomething stupid with a heart emojiâfeels like a splinter under his skin. he shouldâve purged his contacts months ago, but here you are, slipping through the cracks of his digital fortress.
hey. remember when u edited our project? can u help me trim some vids plsâŠ
his jaw tightens. of course youâd ask now, at 2 a.m., when heâs neck-deep in audio plugins and caffeine. his fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to dismiss you.
âno,â he types, then erases it.
âwhat kind of vids,â he tries, but deletes that too. too eager. too curious.
after a solid twenty-five seconds of overthinking, he finally sends:
i guess. send what you have.
he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. his room is a cave of glowing screens and scattered energy drink cans, the hum of his overclocked pc the only sound besides his own shallow breathing. he shouldnât care. youâre just another art student, another distraction. but his pulse betrays him, thudding a little too hard in his throat.
flashback.exe
he hated group projects. despised them. a bunch of useless art students in overpriced streetwear, trying to make films with no understanding of pacing or continuity.
theyâd fumble with premiere pro like it was rocket science, leaving him to clean up their shaky cuts and mismatched audio tracks. he always ended up doing 90% of the work, and he preferred it that way. control was his god, and he worshipped it.
but you were different.
not better. just... a different kind of stupid.
you showed up late to the editing suite, glitter pens spilling out of your bag, heart stickers plastered on your water bottle like a middle schoolerâs diary. you called the lav mic a âweird nipple thingâ and giggled when he glared at you. once, you spilled your lip gloss on the soundboard, leaving a sticky pink smear he had to scrub off with isopropyl alcohol. another time, you asked if uploading to drive made your data heavier, and he almost threw you out.
but.
you let him do whatever he wanted.
you didnât hover or micromanage. you just sat there, cross-legged on a swivel chair, watching him cut scenes like it was magic. you leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath, your wide eyes reflecting the glow of the timeline.
âwhoa... you made it feel like a real movie,â you whispered, like heâd just parted the red sea.
you smelled like something artificial. strawberries, maybe, or some overpriced body mist from a mall kiosk. your hair was always tied with a ribbonâpink, blue, sometimes yellow, always obnoxiously bright.
he didnât care.
he told himself he didnât.
but he remembered. every fucking detail.
the zip file lands in his downloads with an obnoxious ka-chunk, snapping him out of the memory. he doesnât rush. just opens it like itâs any other favor, like his heart isnât clawing at his ribcage. the folder name stares back at him: âpls help <3â
typical.
he clicks it open, expecting shaky iphone clips of cafes and shopping hauls. maybe some cringe tiktok dance you think is cute. heâs ready to hate it, to scoff at your lack of framing or shitty lighting.
but thenâ
you appear on screen.
not just appear. you perform.
youâre biting your lip, laughing into the lens like itâs your lover. wearing something stupidly shortâa skirt that barely qualifies as fabric, hugging your thighs like itâs painted on. you spin around in front of your mirror, the camera catching every angle, every curve, like youâre being filmed for someone else. someone whoâd appreciate it.
you pose. cock your head. giggle. the sound is loud, breathy, smiling when you speak. âdo you think this is too short?â you ask, tugging the hem of your skirt, your fingers lingering just a second too long.
he blinks.
backs the video up three seconds.
watches again.
your laugh echoes through his headphones, a little distorted, a little too close. he pretends heâs checking the audio, tells himself itâs for sync, that heâs just doing his job. but his eyes are glued to the screen, to the way your skirt rides up as you twirl, to the flash of skin that makes his breath catch.
he watches again.
his mouth is dry, his tongue heavy against his teeth. your skirt flips up higher this time, and you gaspâlike youâre surprised, like you didnât mean to show that much. but you donât stop filming. donât cover up. just... laugh, a sound that curls around his spine and sinks into his gut.
he doesnât even realize his hand is moving until itâs there, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. his fingers brush against himself, and he hisses, the contact sharp and sudden. heâs already half-hard, his body betraying him before his brain can catch up. the room feels too warm, the hum of his pc too loud, but he doesnât care. he canât care.
he rewinds the clip again, pauses on the frame where youâre mid-spin, your skirt flared just enough to show the curve of your ass. his hand wraps around his cock, slow at first, tentative, like heâs testing how far heâll let himself go. the texture of his own skin is rough, familiar, but itâs not enough. not when itâs you on the screen, laughing like you know heâs watching, like youâre daring him to lose control.
he strokes himself, a tight, deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing over the tip where heâs already leaking. the sensation jolts him, makes his hips twitch in the chair.
he imagines itâs your hand, your fingersâsmall, soft, probably clumsy, but eager. he pictures you kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those wide eyes, your lips parted like they are in the video, glossy and pink and begging to be kissed. or more.
the video plays on. youâre bending over now, adjusting your hair in the mirror, your skirt riding up to expose the thin strip of your underwear. he groans, low and guttural, his hand moving faster.
the sound of your voiceâteasing, playfulâfills his headphones, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him. âdo you think this is too short?â you say again, and he wants to answer, wants to growl that itâs perfect, that youâre perfect, that heâd rip it off you if he could.
his grip tightens, his strokes growing erratic. heâs not gentle with himselfânever is. itâs all pressure and friction, chasing the edge as fast as he can.
his free hand fumbles with the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back to the moment you gasp, to the split-second flash of your thighs. he loops it, the clip stuttering in time with his breathing, with the slick sound of his hand working himself over. his cock throbs, hot and heavy, and he imagines itâs youâyour warmth, your wetness, the way youâd probably whimper if he touched you like this.
heâs close. too close.
his vision blurs at the edges, his pulse hammering in his ears. he shouldnât be doing this, shouldnât be jerking off to your stupid video like some desperate creep, but the shame only makes it worse, makes it sharper.
he pictures you catching him, walking in right now, seeing him with his pants down and his hand on his dick. would you laugh? would you blush? would you get on your knees andâ
he comes with a choked gasp, his hips bucking up into his hand. itâs messy, spilling over his fingers, onto the hem of his shirt. his chest heaves, his head tilting back against the chair as the aftershocks ripple through him. your laugh loops in his headphones, oblivious to the wreck heâs become.
itâs filthy. itâs desperate.
ten minutes later, heâs cleaned himself up, his hands steady again as he trims the file like a good little editor. he cuts out the shaky parts, stabilizes the footage, adjusts the audio so your voice doesnât clip. itâs clinical now, professional, like he didnât just fall apart to the sight of you. he names it something sterile: âvlog_cut_1.mov.â
he exports it twice. once normally, for you. once... not. the second version is raw, unedited, every twirl and giggle preserved in crisp 4k. it gets copied to a different folder, buried in a directory labeled âshader_study_2022.â he tells himself itâs in case you need a re-edit. a backup. thatâs all.
when you text back:
thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3
he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. his heartâs still racing, a faint tremor in his fingers.
he types âanytime :)â and erases it. sends:
np.
what he doesnât say: he rewatched the part where you bend over six times. he had his dick in his hand by the second loop. he renamed the close-up to âtest_render_asscloseup.movâ and hid it behind three layers of subfolders.
he doesnât even like tiktok girls.
heâs into 2d, girls with big swords and bigger tits, drawn in sharp lines and impossible proportions. he once bought a dakimakura because the shipping came with a free pin, and itâs still shoved in his closet, one corner stained from a late-night mistake. real girls are messy, unpredictable, too much work. but now?
heâs thinking about the way your laugh dipped when you turned around, the way it caught in your throat like you were nervous. the way you looked into the lens like you knew someone was watching.
someone like him.
next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.
pink fuzzy shrug, low-rise jeans that sit dangerously low on your hips, a sliver of stomach peeking out like itâs 2004. your hairâs up in a ribbonâpink, of course, swaying as you move. youâre all glitter and confidence, a walking distraction in a lecture hall full of tired students and flickering projectors.
he scoffs under his breath. âtacky.â
but his heartâs pounding, a traitor in his chest. his fingers twitch against the edge of his laptop, betraying the calm heâs trying to project. you slide into the seat two rows ahead and twist around, grinning like a cat, like you know something he doesnât.
your eyes catch his for a split second, bright and teasing, and he forces himself to look away.
he opens his laptop, types random garbage into a terminal windowâsome half-baked python script he doesnât even care about. he runs a fake compile just to feel busy, to drown out the way his blood is rushing too fast.
you lean over to whisper to the girl next to you, your laugh spilling out, loud and careless. your hair tosses, and he swears he catches the scent of your perfume drifting past in invisible waves. saccharine, overwhelming, like strawberries dipped in sugar syrup.
his brain short-circuits. he snaps his headphones on, the cord tangling in his haste. not to listen to music. not to block you out.
to replay your giggle.
heâd isolated the audio last night, cleaned it up with a high-pass filter, boosted the mids to make it crystal clear. exported it as a high-quality .wav, tucked it into a folder labeled âaudio_ref.â he tells himself itâs for study, just good reference for future projects. but he loops it now, the sound of your laugh layered over faint lo-fi static he added for texture. itâs you, distilled into a three-second clip, filling his skull.
he closes his eyes and pretends youâre saying his name. satoru, you giggle, breathy and soft, like youâre leaning over his shoulder again, watching him work. satoru, you made it feel so real.
the lecture drones on, but heâs not listening. heâs lost in the rhythm of your voice, the way it dips and rises, the way it makes his skin feel too tight. he shifts in his seat, adjusts his hoodie, tries to ignore the heat pooling in his gut. heâs not supposed to want this. not supposed to want you.
but he does.
the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.
no dramatic thunderclap. no internal monologue screaming, ah yes, now i am a pervert. itâs quiet. insidious. it sinks in like static, crackling at the edges of satoruâs brain until heâs not sure where his old self ends and this new, wretched version begins.
itâs not like heâs not already a pervert who gets off from pixels. this simply wasnât his brand of perversion.
that night, he stayed up longer than he shouldâve. stared at code for so long his ide crashed, the screen flickering to black as if it knew he was wasting his time. not that he got anything done.Â
he just kept switching tabsâyour final cut in vlc, some useless bash script in vscode he pretended to care about, then back to your video, the timeline frozen on that twirl, that gasp. his fingers shook when he closed the laptop, but sleep never came.
and now itâs the next day. mid-afternoon. the sun is doing that thing where it turns his apartment into a blinding box of heat and regret. his ac hums like an old man, wheezing against the sticky air. heâs sprawled in his chair, one leg slung over the armrest, staring at the ceiling fan like it might tell him how to stop.
ping.
another discord notification. he doesnât even flinch this time. your username glows, and the filename attached makes his stomach do a weird little roll: âtry-on2_raw.movâ. his eyes linger on the heart emoji youâve tacked onto the message, like itâs a personal invitation.
hiii! ty for the last edit, ur a lifesaver <3 can u check and trim this one too? iâm trying smth new but idk if it works⊠lmk what u think pls!!
he clicks download. no hesitation. doesnât even pretend to care anymore.
the file loads into his editing software like second nature, the premiere pro interface blooming across his screen. muscle memory. routine.
heâs done this a hundred timesâexcept never like this, never with his pulse hammering in his throat and his mouth already dry.
the video starts the same way as the lastâhandheld, messy lighting, your voice trailing in from offscreen as you fiddle with the camera angle. no mic, of course not. just raw cam audio, unpolished, real, every breath and rustle amplified. he leans closer, like proximity to the screen will make it less dangerous.
âokayâwait, hold on,â you mutter, slightly out of breath. thereâs a plastic rustle, fabric scraping skin, the light jingle of a zipper. he catches the sound of your nails tapping the digicam accidentally, a faint clack-clack that makes him picture your fingers, probably painted some ridiculous color, fumbling in that endearing way you do.Â
âugh⊠come onâŠâ your voice drops, a frustrated huff, low and throaty. âmmâsorry! this oneâs hard to pull up.â
thenâzipper slides. metal on fabric, slow and deliberate, like itâs teasing him on purpose. you let out a sigh, long, slow, just a little too satisfied, like youâre savoring the release of pressure. the sound coils in his gut, tight and hot.
he freezes.
his mouse stays hovering over the playhead, the cursor trembling slightly. blood is already rushing south, his sweatpants tightening in a way he canât ignore. his breath catches, shallow and sharp, and the worst part?
you giggle.
âprobably got the wrong size,â you say, tugging the dress up higher. the hem catches on your thighs, rising indecently, the fabric clinging to your skin like itâs reluctant to let go. âdonât tell anyone i didnât try it on in-store first.â
he swallows nothing. jaw tight. the room suddenly feels suffocating, the acâs hum drowned out by the thud of his own pulse. your lip catches between your teeth, a flash of white against pink gloss, and the camera catches that too, lingers on it like it knows what itâs doing.
you glance at the lens, eyes half-lidded, like youâre waiting for approval, like youâre asking him directlyâdo you like this?
satoruâs fingers twitch.
one hand stays on the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back three seconds to hear that sigh again. the other hand moves before he can stop it, slipping under his waistband, brushing against the heat of his skin. heâs already hard, achingly so, the kind of hard that makes his head swim.
he wraps his fingers around himself, slow at first, testing, like heâs not sure heâs really doing this again. but the sound of your voiceâbreathy, teasingâloops in his headphones, and heâs gone.
he strokes himself, deliberate and tight, his grip almost punishing. the video plays on, and youâre stepping into frame now, the dress half-zipped, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat burn. your thighs shift as you adjust the hem, and he imagines them under his hands, soft and warm, parting just for him.
his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he groans, low and broken, the sound swallowed by the hum of his pc. he pictures your fingers instead, clumsy but eager, your nails grazing his skin as you try to keep up with his rhythm.
heâd guide you, show you how he likes itâfast, rough, no mercy.
you sigh again, and he speeds up, his hand moving in time with the rise and fall of your voice. âthis oneâs kinda tight,â you murmur, tugging at the neckline, and the fabric stretches, exposing the swell of your chest.
he wants to rip it off, wants to hear you gasp for real, not for the camera but for him. his strokes grow erratic, desperate, the slick sound of his hand filling the room, obscene and unstoppable.
he scrubs the timeline back again, pauses on the frame where your dress slips, where your underwear peeks outâa thin, lacy thing that makes his vision blur. he imagines pulling it aside, imagines the heat of you, the way youâd whimper if he pressed himself inside.
heâs close, too close, his hips twitching up into his hand. the video loops your giggle, that satisfied sigh, and heâs drowning in it, in you.
he pictures you catching him like this, walking into his apartment right now, seeing him with his pants down and his cock in his hand, flushed and leaking. would you laugh? would you blush? would you drop to your knees and let him finish on your lips, glossy and perfect andâ
he comes with a muted groan, his head tipping back, eyes screwed shut as his release spills over his fingers, hot and messy. his breath shakes, a ragged exhale that leaves him hollow. the aftershocks pulse through him, and he slumps in his chair, the video still playing, your voice oblivious to the wreckage youâve caused.
he pauses the frame. your mouth is mid-word, forming the shape of âoops,â lips parted just enough to make his chest ache. he wipes his hand on a paper towel from his desk, crumpled and stained from earlier sins. doesnât look at himself. doesnât think.
exports the file without touching a thing. names it âfinal_edit.mov.â then saves another copy, the raw footage, every sigh and rustle preserved. he names it âjesusfuckingchrist.mp4â and buries it in a folder labeled âmisc_ref.â
he tries to normalize it.
âitâs just grading,â he mutters the next time he opens the project, the lie sour on his tongue. âjust adjusting white balance.â but the playback bar hasnât moved from your thighs. he doesnât touch the colors. not really.
he zooms in under the excuse of checking âgrain smoothing,â but itâs just your lip, caught between your teeth, your breath clipped at the edges like youâre holding back.
he tells himself heâs just learning.
every artist has their muse, right? except now he edits to your audio. he used to play podcasts, background noise to keep his brain from spiraling.
now? your breathing is layered into the timeline, a track heâs labeled âvox_ref.â he loops your laugh in reverse, lets it pan from left to right like itâs some surround sound experience.
âthis is practice,â he whispers, dragging eq curves around nonsense, boosting the highs until your voice is sharp and intimate. âiâm experimenting with filters.â
right. filters. filters until your voice sounds like itâs right by his ear, like youâre whispering in bed, your breath warm against his skin. he plays a clip of you saying âdo you like this one?â over and over, the words detached from context.
he doesnât even care what youâre referring to anymore. heâs got that part memorized, the way your voice dips, soft and unsure, like youâre asking him to love you.
the next class is worse.
you walk past him in that fuzzy pink shrug thing, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder, and itâs like a bomb goes off in his chest. the fabric clings to you, soft and teasing, and he wants to grab it, pull it down, see how much skin youâll let him have.
you lean down to plug your charger in, your jeans riding lowâtoo low, the kind of low that makes him wonder how theyâre even allowed on campus. he catches a glimpse of your underwear, a flash of lace, and his brain whites out.
he glares at his laptop, scoffs under his breath. âthat outfitâs⊠desperate.â the word feels like a blade, sharp and mean, but itâs all heâs got to keep you at a distance.
your head tilts, innocent, eyes wide like youâre genuinely curious. âyou think so?â you say it like you mean it, like you donât already know the answer, like you havenât watched your own footage and seen what heâs seen.
he shrugs, keeps scowling, doesnât look at you. his fingers grip the edge of his laptop too hard, knuckles white. behind the screen, heâs got a paused frame of you licking lip gloss off your thumb, minimized in the corner. itâs been open since he got here.
his file structure is disintegrating. he used to name things with logicâtimestamps, project codes, version numbers. now his desktop looks like a manifesto, a digital shrine to his unraveling. âvlog_tryon_final.mov.â âedit_3alt.mp4.â âfuckmeagain_laughcut.mov.â thereâs a folder called âNOT work (unless)â that he doesnât even open anymore, too afraid of what heâll find.
he tries to draw a line, but itâs blurry. always blurry. he doesnât know where the edit ends and obsession begins. when he dreams, he dreams about zippersâexcept theyâre not zipzers. theyâre your legs, parting slow and deliberate, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer.
a new text lights up his screen:
 hey! idk if the last one looks good⊠should i redo it? it felt kinda awkward lol sorry T_T
you sound insecure, unsure, your words dripping with that self-conscious charm that makes his chest hurt. he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, his mind spiraling.
you donât know, do you? you donât know what youâre doing to him, how your voice alone is enough to make him hard again.
he types:
looks clean. donât worry about it.
satoru watches the word clean sit there like a fucking lie. his dick twitches, traitor that it is.
he hates himself.
but he opens the raw file again. scrubs through, frame by frame, until he finds that timestampâwhere you moan, soft and accidental, like you didnât mean to let it slip. he watches it, his headphones sealing him in with the sound of you. he exports that single second, names it âmoan_finalgodhelpme.mp4,â and tucks it away like a secret heâll never confess.
the timeline sits open, your frozen frame staring back at him. he doesnât close it. doesnât want to.
it starts with static in his skull.
not the loud, electric kind that chokes you up or begs to be noticed. itâs quiet. a whir, like an old fan that never shuts off, humming behind his thoughts. when satoru drags his mouse across the screen and sees your name still on the folder, it buzzesâfaint, familiar, a sickness with your scent.
he changes the name from âNOT work (unless)â to âARCHIVE_21,â moves it to a different directory, pretends itâs work, or dead, or both. but the static doesnât stop. it clings, sticky and warm, like your laugh looping in his headphones.
it doesnât help.
not when he dreams in highlighter gloss and those half-bitten whines you make when stretching, your body arching just so. not when he wakes up rutting into damp sheets, mouthing your name like a damn prayer, his hips jerking against nothing. the shame burns, but itâs not enough to make him stop.
satoruâs trying.
really.
he takes up freelance gigs, edits wedding footage for some guy he hasnât spoken to since second year. overlays cheesy filters, mutes the groomâs ugly laugh, syncs the vows to some overused acoustic track. itâs clean. respectable. sterile enough to make him itch, like heâs wearing someone elseâs skin. but the folderâs still there, buried in his drive like it knows heâll come back.
2:03 a.m.
his inbox pings, a sharp sound that cuts through the drone of his pc fans. your name lights up the screen, and his chest tightens before he even reads the message.
hiii satoru!! sorry for the late send, been sooo busy <3 can u take a look at this haul vid? i tried smth spicy but idk if itâs too much⊠lmk what u think pretty pls!!
march haul (raw).mp4
he knows he shouldnât. thereâs no logical reason, no business context, just the weight of your wordsâspicy, pretty plsâsinking into his gut. but his hands move on their own, clicking download, the progress bar filling like a fuse burning down.
click.
of course he does.
the video starts soft, your bedroom light diffused to a golden haze, casting shadows that dance across rumpled sheets. it looks like youâve been tossing in them all day, the fabric creased and inviting.
youâre in laceâbarely. something soft pink and flimsy, a slip of fabric that clings to your curves like itâs begging to be torn off.
your thighâs out, one leg bent just enough to draw his eye, and the cameraâs angled low, too low, like you meant to frame it this way.
âgod, i hope this one fitsâŠâ your voice is breathy, a little strained, like youâre fighting the fabric. you adjust a strap, your fingers lingering on the lace, and your lip catches between your teeth, glossy and pink, a casual gesture thatâs anything but. his breath stutters, a sharp inhale that burns his throat.
âoops, sorryâtoo much cleavage?â you laugh, not to yourself but at him.
he knows it.
his cock knows it, twitching against the seam of his sweatpants. the screen shakes as you set the camera on something unsteadyâa stack of books, maybeâand it rocks just as you turn around, hips swaying, your ass hugged by that tiny thong, the lace cutting into your skin like a claim. you glance back over your shoulder, smirk poised like a dagger, eyes glinting in the soft light.
âi bet youâd pause right here, wouldnât you?â
he does.
the video cuts mid-breath, and he doesnât hear the silence. heâs frozen, hand halfway down, brain wiped clean. the frame lingers on your ass, the curve of it framed by lace, and his mouth is dry, his pulse hammering so loud it drowns out the static.
ping.
march haul (real).mp4
oops. wrong send lol. this is the real one!
his screen is still painted with the freeze-frame of your ass. his dickâs straining so hard it aches, a dull throb that makes him shift in his chair. he doesnât respond, doesnât move for a full minute, just stares at the message, the word oops taunting him. thenâ
he saves both files. drags them into âARCHIVE_21â with a trembling cursor, his fingers clumsy on the trackpad. he opens the raw one again, slower this time, one hand on his lap, the other fisting his sheets until the fabric creaks.
youâre back on screen, adjusting the strap again, your laugh curling through his headphones like smoke. his hand slips under his waistband, and heâs already leaking, the tip slick and sensitive as he grips himself.
he strokes slow, deliberate, savoring the friction, but his mindâs elsewhereâon the hentai heâs spent years jerking off to, the doujins with dog-eared pages and cum-stained corners.
he pictures you like those girls, bent over and begging, your lace thong pushed to the side as he fucks you from behind, your moans louder, needier, than anything youâve let slip on camera.
he imagines pinning you to those rumpled sheets, your thighs trembling under his hands, your ass bouncing with every thrust. no teasing giggles, no coy glancesâjust you, fucked out and whimpering, his name on your lips as he buries himself deep, so deep you canât think.
his hand speeds up, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of his room. he scrubs the timeline back, pauses on the moment you turn, your smirk sharp and knowing.
he wants to wipe it off, wants to fuck you until youâre too wrecked to smile, until youâre clawing at the sheets and sobbing his name. he imagines your cunt, tight and wet, gripping him as he pounds into you, the lace of your thong rubbing raw against his skin.
itâs not enough to watch you anymore, not enough to stroke himself to your voiceâhe wants to ruin you, wants to feel you break under him, wants to make you his in a way those 2d girls never could.
he cums with a low, breathy whisper of your name, his hips jerking up into his hand. itâs intense, almost painful, spilling over his fingers and onto the hem of his shirt.
his chest heaves, his vision blurring as he slumps back, the video still playing, your laugh oblivious to the mess heâs become. he opens it again, doesnât touch himself this timeâjust watches, memorizes, eyes glassy and mouth parted.
at one point, he swears he moans with you, a soft sound that slips out unbidden, his body betraying him even when heâs spent. when he edits the ârealâ file, heâs a machine. no stutters, no slips, just sharp keystrokes and surgical cuts, trimming shaky frames and boosting your voice until itâs crisp.
the guilt claws at him, a dull ache in his chest, but it only makes the next orgasm worseâand better. he exports it, names it âhaul_march_final.mov,â and saves the raw file to a new subfolder: âstills_ref.â he doesnât name the second copy. doesnât need to. itâs just for him.
he plays it cool in class. âwow. another fit straight outta your grandmaâs closet,â he scoffs as you pass, voice dripping with mockery, lips curling into something lazy and mean.
but his gaze flickersâjust once, low and quick, like heâs checking for danger. and there it is. a flash of soft pink lace against the curve of your thigh as you shift your bag higher up your shoulder. just a sliver. deliberate.
he knows that lace. knows it from the raw footage, from the way it hugged your skin under golden light. his smirk falters for half a second, a crack in his armor.
you turn your head, slow as syrup, and smile at him over your shoulder. itâs airy, innocent, ditzy enough to play dumb, poisonous enough to feel like a threat. âmm? that bad, huh?â your voice is light, but your eyes linger a moment too long, sharp and knowing, like youâre peeling him open.
you take your seat two rows away, crossing one leg over the other with careful grace. your skirt rides up, just enough to show the edge of that lace again, and your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem, brushing the fabric like itâs a game.
he doesnât blink.
he knows whatâs under that skirt, knows the way that lace bites into your skin when you move just like that. heâs seen it in soft lighting, tangled with shadows and sighs. he knows, and you know, and neither of you say a word.
he canât breathe.
his hand trembles as he grips his pen, scrawling nonsense on the corner of his notesârandom numbers, jagged lines, anything to keep his fingers busy.
someoneâs asking a question about identity and performance, something about how we present ourselves versus how we wish to be perceived, and satoruâs already halfway to standing.
âsorry. washroom.â his voice cracks halfway through the lie, too sharp, too rushed.
satoru stumbles into the menâs room like heâs escaping a crime scene, the door clicking shut behind him. palm flat against cold tile, forehead pressed to the inside of his wrist, he tries to breathe, tries to think of anything elseâcode, deadlines, the wedding edit heâs behind on.
but itâs you.
always you. your smile, your laugh, the lace peeking out like a taunt.
heâs already hard, already leaking, the front of his jeans tight and unforgiving. he fumbles with the button, shoves them down just enough, and grips himself, his hand shaking as he strokes.
he closes his eyes and sees youânot the you in class, not the you playing dumb, but the you from his fantasies, the you heâs built from hentai panels and late-night desperation. he imagines you on your knees, lace thong pulled down, your cunt glistening as he fucks you against the bathroom sink.
no giggles, no teasingâjust raw, desperate need, your moans echoing off the tiles as he slams into you, his hands bruising your hips, your body arching to take him deeper.
he wants you messy, wants you marked, wants to fill you until youâre dripping, until youâre his in a way thatâs permanent.
he strokes faster, his breath hitching, his teeth sinking into his knuckles to muffle the groan clawing up his throat. he cums hard, too fast, his knees buckling as it spills over his hand, hot and shameful. he shakes, gasping, his forehead slick against the tile, and thinks of lace. thinks of lip gloss. thinks of your voice saying âoopsâ like itâs a sin.
it doesnât take long for his desktop to become an altar.
the backgroundâs still you, a freeze-frame from the first video, your lip gloss shimmering and fingers caught mid-twist in your hair. he tells himself itâs temporary, just a visual reference.
itâs been three weeks.
folders on folders: âhauls > favs > zoom_ins > stills > pantyshots.â âaudio_samples > moan_loop > breath_only.wav.â âcolor tests > gloss_ref > lips.png.â
some nights, he replays a single frame just to watch your mouth form the word âfuck,â slows it down, isolates the syllables, pretends youâre saying his name instead.
the worst part?
youâre still pretending nothingâs changed. still calling them âfavors,â still sending content like itâs work, like itâs nothing.
but your outfits are shorter, your giggles stick to the air longer, your eyes linger like youâre testing something. and when you purr, âyouâre sooo good at this, satoru,â with that saccharine lilt, your voice curling around his name like a caress, he bites the inside of his cheek just to keep quiet. fists the sheets at night and prays.
he moans your name in the dark, face hot with shame, and hates how much he wants you to hear it.
satoruâs become sleep-deprived, dark smudges nesting beneath his eyes like fingerprints left behind by guilt or obsession or both. he wears his glasses more lately, less out of need and more as a buffer between him and the worldâbetween him and you.
the lenses catch the glow of his new triple-monitor setup, a sleek beast he told himself was for coding, for editing, for multitasking. not for keeping your videos looping on the side monitor while he pretends to work on the main one. not for that at all.
your folderâs pinned in quick access, a permanent fixture in his file explorer. he keeps it open in the background at all times, a digital pulse that hums alongside his pc fans. second nature now, like breathing or wanting. not unlike a shrine.
in class, he pretends to take notes, his stylus scratching nonsense on his tablet. heâs not. heâs watching a gif on his phone, hidden under the deskâa loop of your tongue dragging slow across lip gloss, eyes soft with focus like youâre painting yourself pretty just for him. the gifâs only three seconds, but heâs memorized every frame, every flicker of your lashes. his thumb swipes to replay it, again, again, until his vision blurs.
ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.
three days pass, and you havenât messaged. he checks your chat thread more than he breathesâopens, closes, re-opens, scrolling through your old texts like theyâll reveal something new. every flicker of hope is a false start, a phantom ping that makes his chest lurch. heâs pathetic, he knows it, but knowing doesnât stop the itch.
then:
ping.
april haul (suits).mov
hii satoru!! new haul vid for u to check <3 tried some swimsuits this time, hope itâs not too boring to trim hehe. lmk what u think!!â
he nearly drops his phone, his thumb smudging the screen as he fumbles to download. his new setup hums to life, the main monitor flashing with code he hasnât touched in hours, the side monitor already open to your folder.
he drags the file into premiere, the timeline blooming across the screen, but his eyes are on the raw video, already playing on the right monitor, your voice spilling through his headphones like honey.
the videoâs different this time. the cameraâs lower, like itâs been left on a desk or shelf, pointing slightly upward to frame you from your knees to just above your head. your bed makes a cozy blur in the background, sheets tangled like an invitation.
youâre in a bikini top that isnât trying very hard to stay on, thin strings knotted loosely at your neck and back, the fabric barely containing you. âmmm. does this scream summer, or slut?â you giggle, feigned innocence like frosting over heat, your voice curling around the words like you know exactly what theyâll do to him.
you play with the strings at your chest, tugging, adjusting, your fingers brushing the swell of your breasts. then, softer, breathier, to the lens: âbaby, help me pickâŠâ
baby.
it breaks him all over again, a crack that runs straight through his chest. his cock twitches, already hard, straining against his boxers.
everything after that gets softer, lazier, dangerous in how intimate it feels. thereâs no performative energy nowâjust casual, candid seduction, your movements slow, like youâre not hurrying for anyone. like you know exactly whoâs watching and how long heâll linger.
when you shrug a dress off your shoulders, you sigh, the sound catching in your throat. when you twist to adjust a strap, you hum, low and absentminded. and when you struggle with a clasp at your back, your fingers fumbling, you moanâsoft, unintentional, a sound that slips out like it surprised even you.
satoruâs thumb slams the spacebar, pausing the video, rewinding three seconds to hear it again. he watches the way your lips part, the way your brows twitch, the way your body shifts like youâre chasing the sensation.
heâs already leaking, his boxers damp as he shoves them down, his hand wrapping around himself. the side monitor loops the raw footage, your moan playing over and over, while the main monitor holds the paused frame of your parted lips. he strokes slow at first, his grip tight, his thumb swiping over the tip where heâs slick and sensitive.
his mind slips to the doujins heâs hoarded, the hentai heâs spent years chasingâthe girls with flushed cheeks and desperate eyes, fucked raw and begging for more. but now itâs you, not some inked fantasy, and itâs so much filthier.
he imagines you sprawled across your bed, that bikini top ripped off, your thighs spread wide as he fucks you deep, relentless, your cunt clenching around him as you sob his name. no teasing, no gigglesâjust you, wrecked and dripping, your nails clawing his back as he takes you again and again, each thrust harder, messier, until youâre nothing but his.
his hand speeds up, the slick sound loud in his room, mixing with your looped moan. he wants you pinned beneath him, wants to feel you squirm, wants to fuck you until the bed creaks and your voice breaks, until youâre begging like those hentai girls, your glossed lips trembling as you say his nameâsatoru, please, more.
he imagines filling you, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body marked by him in ways he canât unsee. itâs not enough to watch, not enough to strokeâhe wants to own you, wants to make you his in every way those 2d fantasies taught him to crave.
he cums hard, forehead pressed to his desk, a low groan tearing from his throat as it spills over his hand, his keyboard, the edge of his new setup. his breath is ragged, like heâs run a marathon, his glasses fogging slightly as he gasps.
the side monitor still plays, your voice oblivious, your moan looping like a hymn. he doesnât stop the video, just slumps back, spent and shaking, and watches again, his hand twitching like itâs not done.
it doesnât take long for his room to reek of sweat and sin.
he edits shirtless now, sometimes in boxers, always hard, always leaking. every fileâs renamed with trembling hands: âwifey_take7.mov.â âwifey_raw.mp4.â
he syncs your sighs to his lo-fi playlist, turns it into a lullaby, falls asleep to the sound of your breath. sometimes he slows your voice just to hear âbabyâ dragged out into velvet, makes gifs of your hands skimming your hips, kisses the screen when heâs drunk enough to forget shame.
you, on the other hand, donât break character.
in class, you chew your pen and lean forward, the arch of your spine exact, your cleavage subtleâbarely a tease, just enough to make his throat tighten. he looks away with a clenched jaw, adjusts himself under the desk, twice, his jeans unforgiving.
you whisper to a friend and giggle, and he lipreads, thinks he sees the words âcanât wait,â but maybe heâs hallucinating, maybe not. it doesnât matter.
he starts responding to the clips aloud.
âfuck yes, that one.â âspin again, baby.â sometimes he mumbles your name like a prayer, sometimes he chokes it into his pillow. every orgasm has your name carved into it, a brand he canât erase.
one night, he opens a file to edit, drags it into premiere, but he doesnât touch it. just watches, headphones in, barely breathing. not a content creator now, not a student, not even a manâjust a creature of need, and you his ritual, his muse, his goddess.
the screen shows you adjusting the straps of a silky babydoll, the lighting warm, your thighs bare, half-tucked under you as you sit prettily at the edge of your bed.
âokay, so this oneâs⊠like, totally giving âcome to bedâ energy, right?â you giggle, voice light, teeth sinking into your glossed lip as you bounce once, soft and natural, the fabric barely covering your chest.
satoru groans low in his throat, not even trying to hide it. âitâs giving bend over,â he mutters, lips twitching, his side monitor looping the raw footage, his main screen frozen on your smile. âfuck, look at youâŠâ
you reach behind you, struggle with the clasp, wiggle your shoulders like youâre teasing whoeverâs behind the camera. âoof. thatâs tight⊠should i size up?â a breathy laugh follows, your sigh melting into it.
he licks his lips, your audio crystal-clear in his headphones. youâre right there, talking to him. ânah, baby,â he croons, eyes fixed on the curve of your spine as you turn. âtightâs perfect. keeps the goods in place.â
you blow a kiss at the lens. âhope youâre not bored yet,â you say with a wink. âi saved the cutest for lastâŠâ
you bend off-frame, your ass peeking just above the edge of the bed, round and inviting in cotton panties with lace trim, and when you rise again, your hands hold something sheer and tiny. âtadaaa,â you whisper, eyes glinting with mischief. âthis oneâs for my favorite viewer.â
00:05:46âsatoru slams the shortcut, timestamp saved. a second later, he screenshots, then again, then again, frame by frame, until he finds the exact one where your lipâs caught between your teeth and your ass is still halfway in the air.
âfucking perfect,â he mutters, breath uneven. he pulls the image up on his main screen, zooms in, sharpens it, runs it through noise reduction. the side monitor loops the raw video, your voice sweet and teasing, while the right monitor plays a gif of your earlier moan, your lips parted in that soft, accidental sound.
his handâs already moving, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free, hard and leaking like itâs been waiting for this.Â
he grips himself, rough and urgent, no pretense of patience. the new setupâs perfectâyour video on the side, his code on the main screen like heâs working, but itâs all you, every pixel, every sound.
he strokes in time with your giggle, his eyes flicking between the gif of your moan and the screenshot of your ass, his mind spiraling into the filthiest corners of his hentai-soaked brain.
he imagines you on that bed, face down, ass up, the babydoll hiked to your waist as he fucks you so hard the headboard cracks. he wants you screaming, wants your cunt pulsing around him, wants to pull your hair and make you look at him as he fills you, over and over, until youâre a mess, until youâre his completely.
his strokes are frantic, his breath hitching, his hips bucking into his hand. he pictures you tied to the bed, like that one doujin he read last month, your wrists bound with those same bikini strings, your thighs trembling as he fucks you through one orgasm into the next.
he wants to cum inside you, wants to watch it drip out, wants to push it back in with his fingers and make you lick them clean. itâs not enough to jerk off anymore, not enough to dreamâhe wants to break you, wants to make you real, wants to fuck you until youâre as addicted to him as he is to you.
he cums with a choked growl, his head tipping back, glasses slipping down his nose as it spills over his hand, his desk, the sticky mess splattering his keyboard.
heâs shaking, gasping, his chest heaving as the side monitor loops your voice, your âbabyâ purring like a mantra. his wristâs sticky, his room a haze of sweat and shame, but he doesnât care. heâs not even really here.
youâre everywhere nowâthree monitors, three altars, your image burned into his retinas. heâd worship on his knees if you asked.
the next day, another file:
april haul (closeups).mp4
sorry! idk if this oneâs helpful but i liked the shots hehe
he doesnât unzip his pants. doesnât need to. heâs already throbbing from the inside out, his body reacting to your name alone. he clicks, watches, kneels, and whispers your name like a benediction, the static in his skull louder than ever.
it starts with a ping.
innocuous. a single pixel shift on the main monitor mid-code, just as satoruâs debugging a script for a deadline he already missed. his side monitor hums with your last video, paused on that frame where your lipâs caught between your teeth, and the third monitorâs open to a half-finished render he hasnât touched in days. he glances lazily at the notification, expecting another reminder from suguru to shower or eatâ
but no. itâs you.
hey⊠do u do filming too?
his fingers freeze. heart jams, a dull thud in his chest. the cursor blinks, waiting, mocking. he doesnât think. doesnât breathe. his glasses slip down his nose, and he doesnât fix them. the words burn into his retinas, and his cock twitches before he can process why.
yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?
he sends it, his thumb trembling over the enter key. no reply. not for five whole minutes. the wait is a crucifixion, each second stretching into eternity. he keeps opening and closing the chat, rereading your words like they might shift into something dirtier, something more.
his triple-monitor setup glows, your frozen frame on the side monitor staring at him, lips parted, eyes glinting. heâs already leaking in his pants, a damp spot spreading against his thigh.
then:
just a casual thing. home setup. come over?
he reads it twice. three times. his breath catches, sharp and shallow, like heâs been punched. come over. your dorm. your space. heâs hard, achingly so, his boxers tight and unforgiving. he doesnât reply, just slams his laptop shut, grabs his camera bag, and stumbles out the door.
he shows up twenty minutes later, barely remembered to wear deodorant, definitely forgot his dignity. his high-end sony alpha mirrorlessâloaded with a lens that costs more than most peopleâs rentâbounces against his chest as he knocks. his palms are slick, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat of his own nerves.
you open the door with a giggle, wrapped in a pastel pink robe that might as well be air. it clings to the curve of your waist, parts at the thigh, revealing soft skin that makes his throat burn. your hairâs still damp, sticking to your collarbones, and the scent of vanilla lotion hits him like a drug. âthanks for coming! iâm kinda nervousâŠâ
he wants to bark out same, but his jaw locks. he swallows instead, the motion too loud in his ears. âno problem.â his voice is gravel, like heâs choking on his own want. he steps inside, and your dorm swallows him wholeâwarm, cutesy, a pastel fever dream of plush throw pillows, fairy lights, and a pink velvet couch that looks too soft, too inviting.
heâs already imagining you bent over it, your robe hiked up, your moans echoing off the walls. it smells like you sprayed your strawberry perfume over every surface, dizzying, suffocating. his glasses fog again.
he sets up the tripod with shaking hands, the sonyâs weight grounding him just enough to keep from falling apart. you bounce around the living room, humming, fluffing pillows on the couch, fixing your gloss in a heart-shaped mirror propped against a shelf.
âdoes this lighting make me look washed out?â you ask, stepping back, tilting your head. then you bend to adjust a lamp, and your robe parts just enough to reveal the gentle curve of your ass, bare except for a sliver of lace.
he sees. pretends he didnât. fumbles the lens cap, twice, the plastic clattering to the floor. his face burns, but he keeps his eyes on the camera, adjusting settings he doesnât need to touch.
you brush past him again and again, your bare arm glancing his, silk whispering across his knuckles when you pass. he smells shampoo in the air, thick and sweet, and itâs you, all you, sinking into his lungs. âyou nervous?â you tease, voice light, a giggle curling at the edges.
he scoffs, wiping his palm against his jeans, the denim rough against his slick skin. âpfft. nah. iâve filmed worse.â a lie, bold and brittle, his voice too tight to sell it.
âworse than me?â you pout, stepping closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. âouch.â
âi didnât say that.â his voice cracks, a hairline fracture. heâs too aware of you, of the way your robe slips an inch, of the way your eyes glint like youâre playing with him.
you tilt your head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. âsooo⊠you have filmed pretty girls before?â
he falters, breath stuttering in his chest. heâs a virgin, hasnât touched a girl in years, hasnât wanted toânot when hentaiâs been enough, when doujins have been his only lovers. but youâre real, and youâre here, and youâre breaking him.
âno one like you,â he says, unfiltered, raw, the words slipping out before he can stop them.
your lips curl, slow and sweet, a smile that says i know. âhm. figured.â
you disappear into your bedroom for a few minutes, the door clicking shut. he pretends to adjust the white balance, tweaking settings on the sony that are already perfect, but really heâs staring at the door like it owes him salvation.
his cockâs throbbing, a dull ache that wonât quit, and he shifts, trying to ease the pressure. the living room feels too small, the pink couch too soft, the fairy lights too intimate. heâs imagining you sprawled across that couch, your robe gone, your thighs spread, his camera capturing every gasp.
the door opens. you emerge. lingerie set, pale and sheer, a mini skirt that barely qualifies, lip gloss freshly reapplied. you look like a doll, saccharine and sinful, every curve a taunt. âcan you help me zip this?â you turn, bare back exposed, the zipper halfway up, your spine a perfect line that begs to be touched.
he steps forward, too close, his exhale brushing your shoulder. his fingers graze your skinâsoft, warm, realâand you shiver, a small, deliberate tremor. he pulls the zipper up with trembling hands, the metal catching once, his breathing uneven. the distance between you shatters into nothing, the air thick with static.
âyouâre doing this on purpose,â he rasps, low in your ear, his voice rough with want.
âdoing what?â you whisper, fake innocence thick as honey, your head tilting just enough to catch his eye.
you look back at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted, glossy and pink. he breaks.
âfuck.â
he grabs you, his hands rough on your hips, your mouths crashing togetherâteeth, tongue, gasps. your lip gloss smears against his cheek, sweet and sticky, and he groans into the kiss, devouring you.
you moan into his mouth, legs wrapping around his hips as he lifts you onto the counter, the edge biting into your thighs. youâre silk and heat and sin beneath his hands, and heâs forgotten everything elseâhis camera, his code, his shame. only you exist now.
you feel his hard-on through his jeans, pressed against your thighs, and heâs panting, his breath stuttering against your skin as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, the ridge of your spine. his mouth is everywhere, like heâs starved, like heâs trying to memorize you with his tongue.
his glasses slip down, and he grins against your collarbone. âneed to get a better look,â he mutters, a flimsy excuse to lean closer, until the fog of his breath warms your skin. he bites your collarbone, hard, groaning when he leaves a mark. âwanna see that in playback.â
he drops to his knees without hesitation, a virginâs worship, reverence born from years of hentai and nothing else. his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them wide, and he groans like heâs just found salvation. he runs his tongue along the inner part first, slow and teasing, so close to the lace of your panties but not touching what you want.
you try to close your legs, but he forces them open, his grip bruising, his mouth finding the wet spot through the fabric. âfuck, youâre soaked,â he growls, voice muffled, his tongue dragging heavy and slow, the lace rough against your clit. âbeen wet for me this whole time, huh? fuckinâ tease.â
you whimper, hips bucking, and he moans into you, the vibration making you gasp. he licks through the panties, relentless, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose but he doesnât care.
âyou taste better than i dreamed,â he says, his voice hoarse, hentai dialogue spilling out like itâs natural. he sucks at the fabric, tongue pressing harder, and youâre trembling, your hands fisting his hair as you grind against his face. heâs messy, desperate, his moans louder than yours, like heâs the one about to cum. you do, hard, a cry tearing from your throat as you shudder against his mouth, and he doesnât stop, lapping at the soaked lace like itâs his last meal.
he presses his cheek to your thigh, sticky and glistening, looking up at you with glassy eyes. âfirst oneâs mine,â he says, grinding his hips into the floor, his jeans tight with his own need. you donât think he even realizes heâs doing it. he spreads you open with his fingers, peeling the panties aside, watching your hole twitch with a hunger that makes his mouth water.
âlook at that,â he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice dripping with awe. âfuckinâ perfect.â he slides two fingers in, slow at first, then deeper, curling them just right, like heâs memorized every doujin panel that showed him how. âshitâiâve seen this in hentai but itâs better. fuck, itâs real.â
his fingers pump, slick and steady, and youâre moaning, head thrown back, the counter digging into your hips. he adds a third, stretching you, his free hand jerking himself through his jeans, matching the pace of his fingers inside you. âso tight, baby. youâre gonna feel so good around my cock.â
he spits on your pussy, a quick, filthy gesture, his eyes locked on yours as it drips down. âthey never show that part right in hentai. had to test it myself.â you moan, loud and broken, and he moans louder, his fingers slipping out with a wet squelch. he licks them clean, slow, eyes fluttering shut like heâs savoring you. âfuckâwant it all.â
he stands, trembling, his jeans tented painfully. âcan i?â his voice is small, almost pleading, a crack in his bravado. you nod, and he fumbles with his belt, shoving his jeans down just enough. he lines himself up, his cock thick and leaking, the tip brushing your entrance. âyouâre so warmâholy shitâyouâre squeezing meâfuckââ
he slides in, slow at first, gasping as you take him, your cunt tight and slick around him. heâs a virgin, but he knows this, knows the rhythm from years of jerking off to scenes just like this. he freezes, trying not to cum, his glasses fogging as he pants. you clench down, deliberate, and he slaps your thigh, a quick, sharp sting that earns him a whine.
âdonâtâfuck, donât do that yet.â
he pulls out, just to slam back in, harder, the counter creaking under you. his rhythmâs sloppy, desperate, but he finds it, each thrust deeper, rougher. âlook at you,â he growls, his voice pure filth, hentai dialogue spilling free. âtaking my cock like a good little slut. you love this, donât you? fuckinâ made for me.â he licks the tears running down your cheek, his tongue hot and greedy. âcrying already? baby, iâm not even close to done.â
you moan his name, and he loses it, his thrusts turning frantic, messy, like heâs trying to ruin you. âfilm it. show me what you see,â you gasp, and he fumbles for his phone, almost dropping it with how hard heâs shaking.
the camera app opens in a blur of fingers, then steadies, the lens catching you spread wide beneath him, thighs trembling, pussy stuffed full of his cock. he holds it there, watching the way you flutter around him, his breath ragged. âwatch this later and see how ruined you look, baby,â he pants, voice hoarse, wild.
he leans in, still recording, whispering filth against your ear. âthatâs right. take it. cry for me. i want you loud.â his other hand drags the mic closer, the sonyâs external recorder capturing every slick thrust, every broken sob, every wet squelch, loud and obscene.
he fucks you harder, the counter shaking, your tits bouncing with each thrust. âgonna fuck you on every piece of furniture in here,â he growls, his voice low, unhinged. âthat couch? gonna bend you over it. that table? gonna spread you wide. your bed? gonna fill you till youâre screaming.â
you clench around him, and he groans, his hips stuttering. âfuck, you like that? you want me to wreck you everywhere, donât you?â you nod, gasping, and he slaps your thigh again, harder, leaving a red mark. âsay it, baby. tell me you want it.â
âi want it,â you whimper, voice breaking, and he grins, feral, his thrusts turning punishing. you cum again, a shuddering mess, your cry echoing in the mic as your cunt pulses around him, slick dripping down your thighs. he doesnât stop, doesnât slow, his cock throbbing as he fucks you through it.
âgonna fill you up,â he pants, his voice cracking, hentai fantasies spilling out. âgonna cum so deep youâll feel me for days. you want that, donât you? want my cum dripping out of you?â
you nod, moaning, and he loses it, slamming into you one last time as he cums, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. itâs hot, messy, spilling inside you, and he keeps thrusting, shallow and desperate, like heâs trying to push it deeper.
satoru doesnât stop.
in fact, he lifts you, his arms wrapping under your thighs like youâre weightless, his cock still buried inside you, slick and pulsing. your head lolls against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, and he groans, low and guttural, as he carries you toward your bedroom.
the air shifts as he crosses the threshold, your perfume hitting him harder hereâfloral and sugary, the same scent that clings to your pillow, your wrist, your everything. itâs thicker in this room, curling around him like a trap, and he kicks the door shut behind him, the click loud in the quiet.
he pushes you toward the vanity, your back meeting the cool glass of the mirror with a soft thud. he bends you over it, slow and deliberate, his hands guiding your hips until your cheek presses against the surface, your breath fogging the reflection.
âlook at you,â he groans, angling his phone to capture the sceneâyour flushed face, your glossed lips parted, your eyes half-lidded in the mirror as you whine in embarassment.
âpretty little thing, still trying to act innocent.â his voice is rough, edged with hunger, and he shifts his hips, thrusting shallowly, keeping you pinned, reaching for your lip gloss.
you mumble something, a weak protest or plea, but he shuts it up with a swipe of your lip gloss across your mouth, his hand trembling as he paints your lips pink, the applicator slick and messy.
âperfect,â he says, pulling back just enough to admire the shine, the way it catches the light. then he pushes in again, deeper, and you both moan, the sound mingling in the air, caught by the sonyâs mic still recording from the tripod in the corner.
he kisses you messilyâgloss smearing, lips hungry, teeth clashing as he grinds his hips, slow and torturous, never breaking the rhythm. the camera stays on, the phone propped against a perfume bottle, capturing every gasp, every shudder.
âtaste so fuckinâ good,â he mutters against your mouth, his tongue chasing the sticky sweetness. âgonna kiss you till youâre dripping everywhere.â
satoru lays you on the bed next, gentle but urgent, his hands shaking as he props his phone against a stack of books on your nightstand, the camera app open, framing you perfectlyâyour body sprawled across the pastel sheets, thighs parted, lingerie barely clinging to your skin, the sheer fabric of your top stretched tight over your chest, the mini skirt hiked up to expose the lace of your panties.
he climbs over you, his glasses slipping down his nose, and pushes your legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, the angle forcing you open, vulnerable.
âfuck, you feel like heaven,â he says, voice cracking, almost reverent, as he slides back inside you, slow and deep, the heat of you pulling a groan from his throat. âiâm never gonna stop, baby.â
each thrust is deliberate, his hips rolling to hit that spot that makes you arch, your nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails heâll stare at later.
he kisses you through it, his mouth sloppy and desperate, swallowing your moans like theyâre his lifeline. the bed creaks under you, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over your tear-streaked face, and heâs lost in it, in the way you clench around him, so tight itâs like youâre made for him.
âso fuckinâ perfect,â he pants, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven. âtaking my cock like you were born for it.â
he tugs at the straps of your lingerie top, pulling it down until your tits spill free, the sheer fabric catching under them, and he groans, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard until you whimper, your hips bucking against him.
but it doesnât lastâhe needs more, needs to see you break in ways heâs only imagined in the dark of his room, his hand on his cock and your videos on loop.
he pulls out, his dick slick and throbbing, and grabs your hips, flipping you with a low grunt. he drags you up by the waist, positioning you on your knees, your ass high, your face pressed into the sheets, the skirt still bunched around your hips. his hand slides up your spine, pushing your chest down, arching you just right, and he yanks the lace panties to the side, not bothering to take them off.
âthis is what you get for teasing me all these days,â he growls, his voice unhinged, as he lines himself up and thrusts in, hard and deep, the slap of skin sharp in the quiet room.
you whimper, muffled against the pillow, and he fucks harder, each thrust rocking you forward, the bedframe rattling, your moans spilling free despite the fabric. his phoneâs still recording, propped precariously, catching every angleâyour arched back, your trembling thighs, the way his cock disappears into you with every brutal snap of his hips.
âlook at that pussy,â he says, his free hand gripping your ass, spreading you open for the camera. âso greedy, swallowing me whole. you love this, donât you?â he tugs your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your cries to echo. âlouder, baby. let the whole fuckinâ dorm hear you.â
he slows, just to torment you, his hips grinding deep, making you squirm, your overstimulated body shaking under him. youâre teary, sobs catching in your throat, but he doesnât careâhe wants you loud, wants you broken. he leans down, his chest pressed to your back, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.
âcry for me,â he whispers, his voice rough, his hand slipping around to pinch your nipple, twisting until you gasp. âwanna hear you fall apart.â he pulls out, leaving you empty, and you whine, a desperate, keening sound that makes him smirk.
âpatience, princess,â he mocks, slapping your ass lightly, the sting making you clench around nothing.
satoru guides you up, turning you to face him, and pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you. âwanna see you ride me,â he says, lying back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hips as you straddle him. he tugs the skirt off completely, tossing it aside, leaving you in just the stretched-out lingerie top and soaked panties.
âbounce,â he growls, his eyes locked on where you sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, your cunt stretching around him as you take him inch by inch. âshow the camera how you fuck me.â
his phoneâs angled to catch it allâyour tits bouncing, still half-caught in the sheer fabric, your thighs trembling, the way you gasp every time you drop down, taking him to the hilt.
you move, your hips rolling, your hands braced on his chest, and heâs sweating, his glasses slipping, his breath ragged. he doesnât let you slow, his hands lifting you, slamming you back down, making you take him deeper. âthatâs it,â he says, voice hoarse, his fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises. âfuck yourself on my cock. show me how bad you need it.â
youâre sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you keep going, your moans loud and broken, your body shaking from the overstimulation. he reaches up, ripping the lingerie top off completely, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound, and gropes your tits, squeezing hard, his thumbs brushing your nipples until you shudder.
âthese are mine now,â he says, his voice pure filth. âgonna mark âem up so you canât hide.â
heâs close, too close, but heâs not done.
he pushes you off, gentle but firm, and stands, pulling you with him toward the full-length mirror by your closet. he spins you, pressing your chest to the glass, your hands splaying against it, your tear-streaked reflection staring back.
he kicks your legs apart, his cock nudging your entrance, and slides in, slow and deep, his breath hot against your ear. âlook at you,â he says, his lips brushing your neck, his hands caging you against the mirror. âlook at my cock ruining your pussy.â
he thrusts, slow at first, watching your reflectionâyour tears, your drool, your gloss-smeared lips, the way your body shakes with every snap of his hips. âyou wanted a nerd? this nerdâs gonna fuckinâ break you.â
he fucks you harder, the mirror rattling, your moans bouncing off the walls, loud enough to wake the neighbors. âso fuckinâ pretty,â he pants, one hand slipping to your clit, rubbing messy, relentless circles. âgonna cum all over my cock, arenât you? gonna make a mess for me?â
you nod, sobbing, your body trembling, and he slaps your ass, the sting sharp, making you clench around him. âsay it, baby. tell me youâre mine.â
âiâm yours,â you gasp, voice breaking, tears streaming, and he cums with a raw groan, spilling inside you, hot and thick, his hips stuttering as he rides it out.
he doesnât pull out, doesnât stop, his cock still hard, still twitching as he fucks his cum deeper, the slick sound obscene. ânot done,â he mutters, his glasses fogged, his voice wrecked. âgonna make you cum again.â
he keeps going, relentless, his thrusts slower but deeper, each one pushing his cum back inside, making you shake. his fingers on your clit are merciless, circling fast, and youâre oversensitive, your body convulsing, your moans turning to desperate cries. âsatoruâfuckâtoo muchââ you sob.
he only slaps your thigh, sharp and stinging, and leans in, his lips grazing your ear. âtoo much? nah, princess, you can take it. wanna feel you squirt for me.â
he angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and youâre gone, your body locking up as you cum, a gush of wet heat soaking his cock, dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. he groans, loud and broken, his hips jerking as he cums again, another hot rush filling you, spilling out around him.
âfuckâlook at that mess,â he pants, his hand smearing the slick between your legs, rubbing it into your skin. âall for me.â
but heâs not done. he pulls you back to the bed, laying you on your side, one leg hooked over his arm as he slides back in, his cock still hard, slick with your cum and his. âone more,â he begs, his voice cracking, his glasses crooked. âgimme one more, baby. need to feel you again.â
he thrusts slow, deep, his hand slipping between your legs to tease your oversensitive clit, and youâre crying, tears streaming, your body shaking from the intensity. he bites your neck, leaving marks, and whispers, âlove it when you cry for me. so fuckinâ loud, just how i like it.â
he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you into the mattress, his hand pressing your face into the sheets. âgonna cum all over you,â he growls, his thrusts turning sloppy, desperate. âgonna fill you up till youâre leaking me for days.â
you cum again, a shuddering, broken mess, your sobs muffled against the pillow, your body convulsing as you squirt again, weaker but still enough to soak the sheets. he cums with you, a third time, his groan hoarse, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, the mess dripping out, pooling under you.
âfuckâbabyââ he gasps, his voice wrecked, his body shaking as he collapses against you, his glasses falling off completely, clattering to the floor.
âmine now,â he whispers, hoarse and ruined, his forehead pressed to your back, his breath hot and uneven. âyouâre mine now.â
you nod, too spent to speak, your body limp, your reflection in the mirror a blur of tears and gloss and him, the phone still recording every ragged breath, every whispered âfuckâ as he pulls you closer, not letting go.
but then silence swells, heavy and slow, filling the room like a fog. the airâs thick with the aftermathâsweat, cum, and the lingering sweetness of your perfume, still clinging to the sheets, to him.
satoruâs hands tremble where they hold you, one slipping down to fumble with his phone, stopping the recording with a clumsy tap, the other pressing flat against your stomach, grounding him, grounding you. your breaths are too loud, ragged and uneven, syncing in the quiet like a metronome.
he leans away slightly, just enough to grab a towel from the edge of your bed, awkward in the afterglow like he just realized he desecrated a temple. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the mess of sheets, and his hairâs a disaster, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat.
âshit,â he mutters, voice barely above a whisper, too quiet for the boy who was growling filth ten minutes ago. âdid iâi mean. that wasnât too much, right?â thereâs a crack in his tone, a flicker of panic, like heâs replaying every thrust, every slap, every sobbed moan he pulled from you.
you donât answer at first, too dazed, too wrung out, your body still humming from the overstimulation, your thighs sticky and trembling.
your silence makes him spiral.
âfuck, i knew it. i pushed too hard. i got carried awayâi was recordingâfuckâi didnât even askââ his words tumble out, frantic, his hand raking through his hair as he sits up, eyes wide, searching your face for any sign of regret.
you turn to face him, slow and sore, your cheek pillowed against your arm, the motion making your body ache in the best way. your eyes are still wet, lashes clumped with tears, lips kiss-bruised and sticky with half-worn gloss, swollen from his teeth. you stare at himâthis boy, this dork, with his mussed-up hair and the panicked look of someone who just lived out a lifelong fantasy and now doesnât know what to do with it.
âiâm okay,â you say, your voice shredded, raw from screaming his name. âjesus, iâm so okay.â
he exhales, a shaky rush of air, like heâs been holding it in for hours. he collapses back against you, burying his face in your neck, his lips brushing the bite mark he left earlier. âfuck, you scared me,â he mumbles, his voice muffled, warm against your skin. then, quieter, almost unhinged: âwe just speedran my entire hentai folder.â
you laugh, a weak, breathy sound that bubbles up despite the ache in your ribs. âi know.â
âi didnât even know i could,â he says, his voice small, like heâs confessing a sin. âi havenât even done that in vr.â
you snort, the sound catching in your throat. ânerd.â
he groans, but itâs not annoyedâitâs mortified, the kind of sound that comes from knowing heâs exposed himself completely. âiâm never gonna recover from this. i glossed you like a fuckinâ bratz doll. i glossed you.â his hand gestures vaguely at your lips, still shiny and smeared, and you laugh again, the sound softer now, your body too tired for anything more.
you roll over fully, tugging him down into the blankets with you, the pastel sheets tangling around your legs. he follows like a kicked puppy, his head resting on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. you can feel his heart still racing, his body still trembling from the high.
âi just,â you mumble, your voice barely audible, âwanted you to notice me. back during the group project, you never looked at me. just your laptop. even when i wore that stupid short skirt.â
he goes silent, his fingers pausing where theyâre tracing lazy circles on your hip. then, in a voice so small it barely carries: ââŠyou wore that for me?â
you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.
he lets out the tiniest, most violated gasp, like youâve just rewritten his entire reality. âi thought you were just one of those girls who always looked hot. like, default setting.â his voice cracks on the last word, and you canât help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips.
âno,â you say, your tone playful despite the exhaustion. âi was trying to seduce the dumbass with the mecha desktop background.â
he muffles a sob into your chest, half-laugh, half-groan, his arms tightening around you. âi love mechaâŠâ he says, like itâs the most tragic thing in the world, and you hum, stroking his hair, your fingers catching in the sweaty strands.
âi know.â
a long pause settles over you, the kind that feels like it could stretch forever. the fairy lights twinkle softly, casting shadows across the room, and your perfume lingers, mixing with the musk of sex. his breathing slows, but he doesnât let go, his body still pressed to yours like heâs afraid youâll vanish.
then he lifts his head, his eyes serious, stripped of the wild edge they had before. âcan i⊠hold you properly? not likeâyâknowâbreeding press. like, real holding.â his cheeks flush, like heâs embarrassed to admit he wants something soft after all that.
âyou already folded me in half like a love letter,â you whisper, but you shift into his arms anyway, letting him pull you close. he wraps around you, tight, needy, his hands trembling like heâs still processing youâre real, not just pixels on a screen. his hold is desperate, like heâs trying to memorize the shape of you, every curve, every soft inch, in case this never happens again.
âdonât make fun of me,â he says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. âi think my crush on you just speedran into obsession.â thereâs a rawness to it, a confession that feels too big for the quiet, but it lands soft, like heâs finally letting it out.
âyouâre the one who begged for one more while crying into my shoulder,â you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
âstop,â he groans, burying his face deeper, his arms tightening like he could squeeze the embarrassment out of himself. âiâm gonna die.â
you press a kiss to his forehead, slow and deliberate, your lips lingering on his sweaty skin. âyouâre not gonna die,â you say, your tone soft but firm. âyouâre gonna eat me out on friday and wear your glasses while you do it.â
he whimpers, a pathetic, needy sound, his hips twitching involuntarily against your thigh. âsay less,â he mumbles, his voice wrecked, but thereâs a spark in it, like youâve just lit something in him again. you giggle, wrapping your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, your skin sticking to his in the humid air.
and in the quiet, as youâre both drifting offâsore, sticky, still catching your breathâhe says it again. not ruined this time, not even possessive. just low. certain. like heâs already planning his next sin.
âmine.â
you donât answer. just smile into the pillow, heart pounding. because maybe you are. and maybe youâll let him prove it again.
especially once he finds out what cosplay you ordered last week.
fridayâs going to be filthy.
#ౚৠâ filed reports#gojo satoru#satoru gojo#jujutsu kaisen#jjk#jjk gojo#gojo smut#jjk smut#gojo x reader smut#jjk x reader smut#gojo x female reader#jjk x female reader#jjk x fem!reader#gojo satoru x you#gojo satoru x yn#satoru gojo x you#gojo satoru smut#satoru gojo x reader#gojo satoru x reader#gojo oneshot#jjk oneshot#nerd gojo#nerd!gojo#nerdjo
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Highlights from the TGWDLM watch party on RanbooLive's twitch for those who couldn't make it:
- Ranboo, a well known Twitch Streamer and longtime Starkid fan got some of the cast of TGWDLM together to rewatch the show & promote the kickstarter!
- It was a side collab, there will still be the main "Divining the future" and DnD Finale streams happening in the next weeks
- Joey Richter got ahold of the soundboard and he abused it wholeheartedly. Crickets, Buzzer sounds, Fart sound effects, ect.
- (Who gave him that power btw. Which one of you did it.)
- Everyone on the discord call had pictures next to their names instead of having their cameras on, most notably Lauren Lopez had a stock photo of a doctor, Jon Matteson had a picture of Jeff Blim, and Jeff had a picture of Jon
- The whole cast introduced themselves and basically said what they had gotten diagnosed with since they did the show
- "This is a HIPPA compliant stream" --Jamie Lyn Beatty out of context
- Lauren Lopez PHD confirmed that after TGWDLM she went to medical school and was the one who diagnosed all of her friends
- Most of the starkids hadn't rewatched the show at ALL until this stream
- Train Choreography mentioned!!!! the cast said James Tolbert is considering bringing it back for the reprise
- Lauren said shes going to be using all of the kickstarter funds to pay for med school
- "It took an apocalypse for him to get closer to his crush" - Jon talking about Paul Matthews
- Jamie made one of the "Tip for a song" sign props for TGWDLM!
- Jamie and Mariah said Alice and Deb are an OTP
- They also said they might make fake instagrams for them to promote the reprise. This is great news for potseed shippers
- There used to be a cut song before La Dee Da Da Day that had Peanuts the Hachetfield Pocket squirrel SINGING
- Lauren said that she would love to have peanuts actually make an appearance, "That squirrel budget is enormous"
- The "Should I take this chair?" "I'll take the piano!" bit was an ad lib
- All the "Okay"s from Paul were also ad libs, meant to give the actors more time to quick change, but now its a genuine part of his character
- They mentioned the homeless man so much, they said that they wanted cocaine to be under his nose for the reprise
- Lauren chimed in with "He doesnt have enough money for coke. He became homeless BECAUSE he spent all his money on coke."
- Lauren confirrmed that she specifically told James Tolbert to keep the "Cup of Roasted Coffee" choreo exactly the same for the remount
- The "Show Stopping Number" choreo will also be the same
- Jeff mentioned that hes planning on making Mariah's songs higher and his songs lower for the show too
- Lauren said she wanted to get a big dumpster for the "Paul, get in the trash can!" scene so the cast could actually be hiding in the trashcan (Probably a joke, but it'd be cool lmao)
- Mariah Rose Faith called TGWDLM a "Sexy Show"
- Lauren joked that shes going to add a line referencing "Janes a Car" from NMT to the scene where Emma talks about her sister's death
- They pitched Smoke Club / Perky's Buds branded joints, and Blue Goo edibles, all being sold at the TGWDLMR merch store
- Jon had to leave the stream right after Act 1 and the second he did the cast was like "Okay, so what do we really think of Jon?"
- "Actually, we're gonna be recasting Paul as this brand new actor named Aaron Tevit" -- Joey Richter
- Joey and Jeff had a headcanon that the army guy Joey plays in TGWDLM calls John MacNamara "Dad"
- During the show Jeff Blim once forgot to wear the watch while playing MacNamara
- "It was the most embarrassed I've ever been in my life"-- Jeff blim
- Ranboo told the cast that they once recorded a shot for shot remake of Show Stopping Number with all the choreo for his school
- America Is Great Again was actually a backup song, the original song that got cut was "goofy" according to Jeff Blim
- When Emma asked people for their phones at curtain call some people would actually give her theirs, and Lauren + The cast would go backstage and take photos with the phones for their fans
- We reached 475k (The Witches Budget) during this livestream, and we still have 14 days left for the kickstarter!
#starkid#tgwdlm#tgwdlm livestream#starkid livestream#ranboo#ranboolive#ranboo livestream#ranboo twitchstream#tgwdlm reprised#lauren lopez#joey richter#jon matteson#jamie lyn beatty#matt dahan#jeff blim#mariah rose faith#emma perkins#paul matthews#the guy who didn't like musicals#tgwdlm watch party#peanuts the hatchetfield pocket squirrel#tgwdlmr kickstarter#eden's starkid recap#making this a real tag now because ive done it thrice#alice woodward#deb starkid#potseed
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Fancomic from @littlefiendwaaaaaaaaaaaah!
On the Discord server, @littlefiendwaaaaaaaaaaaah suggested that an array of Febreze scents could be used to communicate with macrovolutes, and I pointed out that would be like trying to communicate via a soundboard of miscellaneous sounds...and so, this was born.
Btw, you can access the Discord server by subscribing to the Patreon for at least $1:
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sparks fly
Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman
Summary: Lando and Amelie find themselves unexpectedly alone during a late-night gaming session with their usual crew.
Wordcount: 2.1 k
Warnings: none
full masterlist // request over here!
April 2nd, 2020 - London, United Kingdom
Lando adjusted his headset for the third time and tried not to stare at his Discord screen like a fucking idiot.
She was gonna join any second now.
The boys had sworn theyâd be on too. âUsual squad night,â George had said. â7PM sharp, donât be late,â Charles had texted. Alex even sent a meme five minutes ago in their group chat like nothing was off.
But Lando had this weird feelingâtight in his chest, crawling up his neck like heatâthat something was very off.
And then the Discord voice channel pinged.
Amelie joined.
Her mic clicked on before she even spoke, and the first thing Lando heard was her laughâsoft, almost breathy, and she said, âWhy the fuck am I the only one here?â
Lando scrambled to unmute.
âHey,â he said, way too fast. Way too eager. He cleared his throat. Chill, mate, Jesus. âUh, yeah, Iâm here too. Guess the others are running late or something?â
âRunning late or ghosting us?â Amelie replied, and Lando could hear the smirk in her voice. âShould we be offended?â
Lando laughed, nervous as hell. He leaned back in his chair, legs kicking slightly under his desk like they always did when he was fidgety. He prayed to every possible god that his voice wouldnât crack.
âHonestly, probably. George owes me like three matches after yesterday. This feels personal.â
She snorted. âRight? And Charles said â7 sharpâ like it was a blood oath. Traitors.â
The call settled into a weird, crackling kind of silence after thatâcomfortable but charged. Like they were both waiting for something to happen. For the others to pop in and save them from⊠whatever this was.
But no one came.
Lando glanced again at the player list.
Still just her. Just Amelie.
And him.
He tugged the sleeve of his hoodie over his palm and muttered a soft âfuckâ under his breath, not into the mic. This was the first timeâeverâtheyâd been alone in a call together. No Charles to interrupt with some stupid soundboard. No George yelling over everyone. No Alex cackling at his own jokes. Just him. And her.
And his heartbeat was absolutely pounding.
âSo...â she said slowly, drawing the word out with a teasing lilt. âYou gonna carry me, Norris, or should I just log off and go read a book or something boring?â
He huffed a laugh. Jesus Christ. She made it sound so easy, like they hadnât just been abandoned on purpose. Not that either of them knew that yet.
âDepends,â he said, grabbing his controller, hands slightly clammy. âDo you actually plan to shoot people this time, or are you still just running around looking for clothes and snacks?â
Amelie gasped. Actually gasped.
âExcuse me, I loot with style. Thatâs called strategy, thank you very much.â
He smiled. That kind of crooked, embarrassed smile he only ever got when she was teasing him like that. Like she saw through all the bullshit and didnât care.
âYeah, okay. Strategy. Sure. You gonna wear that strategy while I get shot in the ass again?â
âYouâre being dramatic.â
âYou left me for a purple leather jacket last night!â he said, voice pitching, mock offended. âYou just watched me bleed out on the street while you were like, âOoh shiny trench coat!ââ
She broke into laughter. Full, unfiltered, soft as hell. He grinned like a fucking idiot.
God, he thought. Iâm so screwed.
Because now that it was just the two of them, Lando realized something terrifying: it was better without the others. Quieter. Sharper. Every word, every little laugh she madeâit hit harder. Landed deeper. Her attention was just on him. And that was... dangerous.
And also addictive.
They launched into a match, the screen full of rapid movement and noise, but the air between them stayed threaded with that same strange tension. Comfortable, and sparking with something unspoken.
Somewhere halfway through the game, she muttered, âLan, behind you.â
It wasnât the first time sheâd called him that. But this time it felt different. Like heâd earned it. Like it meant something.
âYou okay?â she asked after he got shot, her voice softer now, headphones catching the edge of her concern.
He swallowed. âYeah. You were watching my back?â
âAlways.â
Fuck.
He didnât respond for a beat too long. She mustâve noticed, because he heard her laugh again, this time quieter. Nervous maybe. Or shy.
Neither of them mentioned it.
They kept playing. Kept talking. Until the game ended and neither one of them logged off.
At some point, Lando glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight for him. She had to be tired tooâMexico time and allâbut neither of them moved.
Instead, Amelie said, âHey...â
He perked up. âYeah?â
âYouâre actually fun when you're not yelling at George.â
He chuckled. âYouâre actually nice when youâre not stealing jackets off dead bodies.â
She giggled. âTouchĂ©.â
And then it happened again. That silence. But it wasnât awkward this time. It was thick. Like static. Like something just beneath the surface was waiting to be saidâbut neither of them dared to say it.
They both knew something had shifted.
Not that they would admit it.
Not tonight.
But when she finally said, âAlright, I should probably go to sleep,â he almost said Donât go.
Instead, he said, âYeah. Sleep well, Ames.â
Her voice was sleepy, soft. âYou too, Lan.â
And just before she left the call, he thought he heard her sigh. Just a little. Like she didnât really want to hang up either.
The channel went quiet.
Lando sat there, alone in the dim blue light of his screen, heart racing like heâd just finished a quali lap.
He grinned, cheeks warm.
âFuck,â he whispered to himself.
The boys were so gonna make fun of him.
And he didnât even care.
-------------
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The next evening, Lando clicked into Discord with the same buzz of nervous energy fizzing in his chest.
This time, though, the voice channel was already alive.
âOi, lover boyâs here!â Georgeâs voice exploded through his headset before Lando could even adjust his mic.
Lando groaned audibly. âOh, fuck off...â
âDid you sleep at all last night or were you too busy dreaming about her?â Alex chimed in, voice smug and syrupy. âBet he slept with his headset on. Whispered her name into his pillow.â
ââAmes⊠oh Ames⊠revive me again, baby,ââ Charles mocked in a falsetto so bad it looped around into hilarious. ââLoot me some love, please.ââ
Lando slapped his palm over his face. âYouâre all actual children.â
âAwww, heâs blushing!â George cackled. âLook at him! Turn your camera on, coward. Let us see those pink cheeks.â
âNot a chance,â Lando grumbled, sinking further into his chair like he could physically disappear from the embarrassment vibrating through his entire body.
The boys were relentless.
âSoâŠâ Charles drawled, his accent somehow making it sound more dramatic. âWhat did happen, hmm? You guys were alone for over two hours. No interruptions. No Charles-shaped third wheel. Sparks mustâve flown, non?â
âWe strategically didnât join,â Alex added smugly. âYouâre welcome, by the way.â
Lando groaned louder, dragging both hands down his face this time. âYou planned that? You absolute pricks.â
âUh, duh,â George said. âWeâre not subtle. Weâve been trying to get you two to admit your hopeless crushes for, like, years. Last night was just our most genius plan yet.â
âAnd it worked beautifully,â Alex said with a satisfied sigh, like heâd just nailed the final move in a chess match. âHonestly, I should write a book. How to Third-Wheel Your Friends Into a Relationship by Alex Albon.â
âYou're all so unbelievably annoying,â Lando muttered, but he couldnât even be mad. Not really. His cheeks were still warm, and yeah, maybe he had replayed her laugh in his head last night like a complete simp. Maybe her saying âalwaysâ had kept him up longer than heâd admit.
George, predictably, wasnât done. âWhatâd you talk about, huh? Did she say you were her favorite? Did she confess her undying love while shooting zombies and looting jackets? Tell us everything, lover boy.â
Lando threw his head back in exasperation. âNothing happened! We just played the game. Talked a bit. Thatâs it.â
âThatâs it? Youâre telling me two beautiful idiots with unresolved tension get left alone on purpose and nothing happened? I donât believe you.â
âGeorge,â Charles whispered dramatically, âHeâs lying. Heâs protecting the sacred flirt session. Respect.â
And thenâ
Ping.
A new icon popped up in the channel.
Amelie joined.
And just like that, dead silence.
The call went so quiet Lando could hear someoneâs chair creak. Probably Alex. The boys had frozen instantly, like they'd all been hit with a stun grenade.
Landoâs spine straightened like heâd been electrocuted.
Her mic clicked on.
âHey, nerds,â Amelie said casually, completely unaware of the landmine sheâd just stepped on. âWhy are you all so quiet? Did someone die?â
A strangled noise came from George that mightâve been a coughâor a panicked wheeze. Charles smacked something, probably trying to mute his laughter.
âNope! All good here!â Alex said way too fast. âJust, uh⊠updating drivers. Tech stuff. Boring.â
Lando was going to murder them all.
Amelie paused. There was something suspicious in the pause. Like she knew.
Because of course she did.
Her tone shifted, just slightly. Less amused. More... curious.
âUh huh,â she said. âSo you werenât just talking about me, or anything. Right?â
Lando winced. He knew she knew.
George made the most unconvincing noise of denial ever uttered by a human being. âWhat? No. You? Never. We were talking about⊠uh⊠Charlesâs baguette addiction.â
âHe eats like three a day,â Alex added. âItâs actually alarming.â
Charles, affronted, gasped. âBaguettes are culturally essential, thank you very much.â
Amelie laughed. It was soft but pointed.
âMmm. Sure. Baguettes. Got it.â
And thenâbecause she was evilâshe said sweetly, âNice to know you boys are still full of shit.â
Lando couldnât help itâhe barked a laugh.
âGod, you're insufferable,â she said, clearly fighting a grin, probably imagining the panic sheâd just caused. Then, smoothly, she added, âYou gonna carry me tonight too, Lan? Or are you still traumatized from the trench coat incident?â
The boys exploded.
âLan?! Again?!â
âOh my god, kill me. Iâm actually deceased.â
âJust bury me now. Theyâve got nicknames.â
Lando leaned back in his chair and let it wash over him, the teasing, the chaos, her voice mixing with theirs like she belonged there. Because she did. She always had.
And yeah, they were all absolute menacesâbut he didnât mind.
Not when she was here. Not when she was laughing.
He smiled to himself, eyes flicking toward her icon on the screen.
So screwed.
And maybe⊠maybe okay with it.
#f1 fluff#lando norris#lando norris fluff#f1 fanfic#lando norris fanfic#f1#f1 smau#formula 1#lando fluff#lando x you#f1 fic#formula 1 fanfic#formula one#singer#sabrina carpenter#lando norris x singer!#lando#lando norris x oc#lando x singer!#f1 imagine#short n sweet#short n sweet tour#sabrinasource#sabrina carpenter edit#lando imagine#lando fanfic#ln4#lando norris x females character
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101 ways to make monaco races more interesting: #1~#4
reverse grid COMPLETELY by putting the order from p20>p11 and p1>p10
install cars with all the sprinklers, discord soundboards that gives off honk
have random ass pit lane opening times (eg. 5 times out of the entirety of 78 laps). they could be random af laps like "5 7 39 64 76", and the drivers would only know about the pit lane entry open 1 lap prior the thing.
each pit lane entry is limited to a certain amount of cars (eg. 6 cars at most for lap 7), making the cars need to fight tf out to enter the pit lane or the closed doors will be shoved right into your face and penalty comes down at +10 sec minimum
just imagine the drs train be people honking and blasting each other with sound effects. then we get a random bunch drivers having a collective thought of opening the sprinklers at once, causing so much water that they need inters for the wet road.
and people rushing into the pits via ACTUAL overtakes so nobody can hold each other up bc its still impossible to NOT PIT at all in monaco even if you're starting off with hards
#f1#formula one#monaco gp 2025#monaco grand prix#gr63#george russell#mercedes#this race has BROKE me completely#no my 2am brain cannot compile all this#always open to imaginations
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Want to participate in Marvel Trumps Hate, but don't know what to offer? Think outside the box!
Stumped on what to offer because you don't write fic or draw? Marvel Trumps Hate welcomes a huge variety of fanworks and fan labor (see our sign-up post), so there are different ways you can contribute. You'll be amazed by the breadth of skills, talents, knowledge, and types of creative expression found in fandom!
Here's a smorgasbord of offers that we've either had before or seen people discuss as possibilities for MTH 2024 or future years to help inspire you. What you can offer is not restricted to the list below; these are just examples to get you brainstorming about what you can auction off because trust us, even if you think you might not have something to offer, you probably do!
ART (VISUAL/ILLUSTRATIVE)
Drawings/illustrations
Single-page and multi-page comics
Pixel art
Paintings (oil, acrylic, gouache, watercolor)
Mixed-media artwork on canvas
Ink-on-bristol art
Embroidery on canvas
Pour paint/spin art
Rotoscopes
Digital coloring books
AUDIOVISUAL WORKS
Fan music or filk inspired by characters, ships, or fics
Podfics
Videos (fic trailers, themed edits, vids set to songs)
Animations (making original art/animation or turning existing art into animation)
BETA SERVICES
Editing
Cheer reading
Soundboarding/planning/development work
Fact-checking
Culture-picking
Sensitivity reading
Knowledge about specific topics or experiences (e.g., identities, lifestyles, professions, interests, fields of study)
Research
CRAFTS & MERCH
Candles
Lip balms
Soaps
Stained glass/suncatcher
Scented beanbag-style sachets
Candy/chocolate/baked goods/jellies/sweets
Fic/character/ship/theme boxes (like book boxes)
Pins, magnets, patches, charms, standees, key chains, ring holders, calendars, stickers, bookmarks, temporary tattoos
Sculptures and clay figures
Ceramic mugs and other ceramic items
Apparel/wearable accessories (shirts, jackets, scarves, gloves/mittens, hats, face masks, regular masks, cowls, pajamas/onesies)
Backpacks, tote bags, itabags with custom window shapes, leather dice bags, wallets, pouches/pencil cases
Plushie animal or Tsum Tsum versions of Marvel characters
Dolls (crochet, needle felt, matte board, hand-sewn)
Embroidery hoops/wall art and cross stitch pieces
Jewelry (diamond painting, macrame, metal, crochet, wire, beads)
Woodwork/wood burning (cheese board, box/chest, USB stick, coasters, photo frame, alphabet blocks)
Glasswork
Custom Funko Pops
Paper cut light boxes
Pillow cases, quilted pillows, baby blankets, dishcloth/washcloths, potholders
Handmade leather journals
Linoleum stamps
Dog/cat/pet toys
Artbooks, paper doll books, and coloring books
Hand-dyed yarn skeins
Custom tea blends
DIGITAL (GRAPHIC DESIGN)
Gifsets
Graphics/edits
Mood boards
Photo manips
Fic covers/posters/banners
Icons and headers
Webweaving
Tumblr or website layouts
Digital calendars
Wallpapers
Custom Discord emojis
FAN LABOR & TRANSLATION
Typesetting
Bookbinding
Recipes based on characters, ships, or themes
Names, tags, and summaries for fics
Audio/sound editing and/or soundscaping for podfics
Book cover design and printing
Art/comic/fic translation
Website/game/AO3 skin coding
Fic rec lists
Fic playlists/fanmixes
Knitting/crochet patterns
Art coaching
Help with launching and organizing fan events
WRITING
Fic
Poetry
Meta posts
Social media AUs
Physical letters written by characters to the reader or between two characters
Remixes of your fic or an existing fic with the author's permission
Whether you can do something on this list or something else altogether (we're sure there are a lot of other things that you can do that we haven't thought about or seen before), we hope you'll consider signing up before the deadline: September 28, 11:59 PM ET.
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Introducing my chat mascot, Jorbo, and his favorite vocal stim đœâš
Jorbos are alien creatures that have infested the moonbase and represent my commoonity! They have a ton of neurodivergent traits that represent auDHD folks like myself and many members of chat.
One of these traits is an upcoming feature from VTS P.O.G. that allows the model to make soundboard noises! Chat can use channel points to redeem "vocal stim" and play a random sound.
They have a ton of species lore which I presented on stream but will be posted soon in the discord for reference! There's also a template for making your own jorbosonas and it's been so fun seeing everyone's creations.
Fun fact: I drew and rigged Jorbo's model myself, he's actually just a live2D item with my arms attached to give the illusion that he's part of my base model!
#look at my beautiful infant son#i love this little freaklet so much already#jorbos#vtubers#moonbtch#vts pog#twitch clips#chat mascot#soundboard pet#live2d
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hi hello! as a live show taper, do you have an advice for where to start for someone interested in learning to tape? with the new tour announcement it seems like i'll be able to go to a bunch of shows in an area that's kinda light on tapers, so it would be really neat if i can learn enough to get some decent quality tapes from this tour, but as someone with no background in audio stuff it all seems a bit overwhelming from the outside!!
SO YOU WANT TO BE A LIVE SHOW TAPER: an overview by your favorite amateur tMG taper!
Before we start: my top resources here are the Taper's Section forum (yes, a real old-school forum!) and the taping thread in the unofficial tMG community discord server (it's an older thread, will have to scroll down to it in the tmg-forum section). I really hate to be the "join my discord server to get your answers" guy, but it's genuinely a great space to talk to some really knowledgeable regular tMG tapers and get a lot of good specific advice.
You can get really intense about taping really fast. It depends on how much time and money you're able to invest into it, and there are a million factors wrt approach, gear, investment, etc. For this post, I'm just going to do an overview of what I would recommend for a beginner-friendly setup that's not too big of an investment and is a step above a cell phone recording.
Gear: I love my PCM-A10 recorders because I can connect them to my phone and control and monitor them remotely, but the price tag isn't very beginner friendly - you'll likely find A10s going for ~$150 on eBay. Also, the ideal use case for an A10 is with external mics or to pull soundboard, not as an all-in-one to just set and forget. You'll want to look for something like a Zoom H2* or H2n, which are a smallish all-in-one recorder and can go for less than $50 on eBay if you do a little searching. (*Note: the H2 has a known issue where it stops and restarts with a small gap once it hits a limit, but you can patch that out by following this tutorial with this updated firmware link.)
Recording during the show: unless you have permission to tape, which is a whole nother can of worms, you'll have to get your recorder past security. Usually if you hide or disguise it somehow in your bag you can get away just fine. If you're in the front row for the show, you can usually discreetly prop up your recorder on the barrier or just set it somewhere that it won't move. If you can stay relatively still and not sing into it, putting it in a chest pocket on a shirt or jacket is also a good option. I always try to capture everything from the moment the lights dim, so I usually start my recording a little early and just chop off the excess at the beginning, but if you're worried about storage space or anything you can just try to be really aware and hit record as soon as the lights go down.
Processing: At a minimum, you'll need to name the file, chop it into tracks, and populate metadata. I do this in Audacity (free) and it takes less than an hour once you get a workflow down. However, you can also go crazy with processing if you want to - I do EQ and mixing in Reaper (free trial version) and audio repair and de-click in iZotope (paid software). You can do some fairly basic EQ work pretty easily in Reaper and it can make a decent difference with how the audio sounds - I typically do parallel compression and chop the low end in order to bring the vocals up a little bit and balance out any boominess. My order of operations is mixing (if applicable)/EQ > repair > tracking/metadata. I know EQ sounds complicated, but it's really just fiddling with some standard presets until you like how it sounds.
Uploading to the LMA: The Live Music Archive is specifically for decent quality lossless tapes - cell phone tapes are fine to upload to the Internet Archive as "community audio", but the LMA is supposed to be higher quality. WAV or FLAC is your lossless format, I always work with WAV throughout the whole process. There's a fairly standard convention for file naming, page info, etc that I think there's a tutorial on somewhere but I'm also happy to go into that if need be. It'll take a little bit to upload the files, so I usually just leave it running on my computer overnight. After uploading, it automatically derives the upload into different file types before it can be streamed or downloaded.
Congrats, you've done a tape! I'm happy to go into significantly more detail on any part of this, whether here or in the discord server - feel free to send further asks or drop me a DM and I'll do my best to answer, I just wanted to keep this post as a relatively high-level overview. Thanks for asking, I'm always thrilled when people express an interest in taping!
#txt#transmissions from lyric#resources#tmg#the mountain goats#long post#ask#WHEW ok i think that's all my tags!#thank you SO MUCH for asking i'm so excited anytime folks express an interest in getting into taping :)#and i am SO sorry that this took me literal months to answer! i hope it's still soon enough to be of use!
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sound clips Iâve added to my discordâs soundboard:
-swaine saying âstupidâ (schtewpid)
-swaine saying âyou what?â (u wot)
-swaineâs entire âoh no, Iâve got a bad feeling about thisâ sound clip
-oliver saying âyippee!â
-phoenixâs objection
-edgeworthâs objection
-edgeworthâs âeureka!â
-the realization sound effect from ace attorney
so basically all of our calls sound like the inside of my head
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đ
°đ
Čđ ă1ăâŻ: âžââââŁâ⥠I
Mafia Main Character!I.N x author!reader(fem)
Masterlist
Content & Trigger Warnings: uoıÊÉÉčÉıɯsuÉÉčâ„, mentions of cursing

~~~~~
"I shall remember:
When Caesar says 'do this,' it is perform'd."
__________
'Well... Where shall we start?'
'Ahem... I'm (y/n) (l/n), ### years old and welcome to Disney Channel!-'
"(n/n)? Hello? You aren't talking to yourself like a weirdo again, are you?"
A familiar voice echoed through the (h/c)-haired's laptop speakers as (y/n) snapped out of her thoughts that she unconsciously blurted out and gave her childhood friend, Fuyuko, a sheepish smile.
"Aha... I talked my mind out again, didn't I?" (y/n) ended up giggling a bit when she saw the amethyst colored eyes reflected a deadpan expression.
"Why are you introducing yourself like you're literally in that cringe Disney channel and where did that censored sound come from? Were you using the Discord Soundboard? You're literally-" But before Fuyuko, the black-haired boy could finish his sentence, (y/n) excessively hushed him no matter how many times he tried to speak up about her age, leaving him to roll his eyes instead in annoyance as (y/n) took his turn to speak.
"No no no! That's case sensitive! Don't remind me of my age, no more! I beg!"
"Fine so stop cutting me off, it's one of my pet peeves, remember? Ugh... What am I going to do with you..." Fuyuko muttered under his breath even though he knew (y/n) could hear it and carried on to continue their conversation on why she decided to call so abruptly, at 12 AM no less?
"So, why'd you ring again at this time? Can't you tell the time, (n/n). I need sleep."
(y/n) couldn't help but feel a tad bit guilty when she saw Fuyuko's irises red from the lack of sleep he had been getting from her spontaneous calls these previous days but this is what âtwo peas in a pod are always togetherâ meant, right?
"(Y/N)." Fuyuko grumbled, one of the few indications that he was genuinely about to get angry that she had realized through the hard way, so with haste, she quipped her reason; An angry Fuyuko Amane was never a good sign after all.
"Okay, okay sorry! I called you because I couldn't sleep because I've been thinking about 'what would happen if you, an author, would get sucked into their story sporadically with no exact time but only every past midnight and be the main character who had a really tragic story behind them'?"
Fuyuko gave her an incredulous look at how strangely specific (y/n)âs late night thought was as he tried to process every single word into his brain and all he could muster up was,
"The fuck?"
Getting slowly embarrassed at the awkward silence Fuyuko dragged on, (y/n) shouted at him to make him snap out of his confusion, "Answer me already and make it quick!" Adding an apologetic "Please?" When she saw him glare at her.
"Ugh... That was very oddly specific but if it were me, I'd try to act as the main character and just survive and find a way to get back to the real world... Happy now?"
"Yep! Thanks and good night!"
"Wait hu-??" (y/n) quickly hang up on him as she splayed herself onto her bed and looked at the ceiling with a defeated look before she yelled,
"But that's what I've been doing for the last two days now and nothing's changed at all!"

Â©ïž asterri-writes
#i.n skz#i.n stray kids#i.n x reader#jeongin x seungmin#jeongin x you#mafia au#ri_writes#shoot.#character x author au#male yandere#transmigration#my ocs#ocs#stray kids#skz x reader#skz#skz fanfic
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haiiiii real quick whats that auragh sounding noise you use in your videos for the "IS JOKES" disclaimers? me and my sister ping-pong it back and forth as a vocal stim constantly so im hoping to put it in a discord soundboard or something if youre okay with that 0:3* thanks so much either way!!!!! /gen
*authors note: halo animal
HELLO YES that is the sound of garguantua-blargg from tetris attack on super nintendo! i stole it from protonjon's videos. i am SO glad someone else likes it as much as i do its like one of my favorite videogame sounds ever
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Hi! Iâm interested in writing a realistic teen fiction novel set in high school, focusing on multiple students and their everyday lives both within and outside of school. I want the story to feel like you're reading someone's diary, similar to shows like Freaks and Geeks, Skam, and My Mad Fat Diary. Sooo, any prompts or ideas to help me get started? Or advice? Anything will do! Thank you so much!
The challenge or writing realistic teen fiction when you're not a teenager is quite high. You always run the risk of outdated references, incorrect slang, and overall awkward writing.
DO go for universal experiences. Teenagers throughout the ages deal with the challenges of dating, parental conflict, pressures to get the highest scores or hang out with the right crowd. Kids are going to go through the same experiences no matter how much the world changes. Tap into those emotions and think about what you went through as a teen. How do you project those experiences and emotions onto your character? Could you give them similar challenges? Put them through situations you managed to avoid? Lean on what you know.
DO treat your characters with respect. Yes, even the guy who smokes too much weed has a much richer inner life than you may put to paper. You don't have to give every character a ten-page backstory and a showcasing scene, but do be sure to give depth to both your main characters and antagonists. Don't brush off their concerns or values - even if you think fighting over a prom date is silly in hindsight - as unimportant.
DO focus on setting and specifics. Where your story is based and what's going on in the environment is going to vastly impact what issues your teen characters will face. Some teens may face issues with drugs and environmental violence. Others will have more experience with dealing with online bullying. A lot of teens are far more used to LGBTQ peers and more accepting environments, but that doesn't mean issues of racism, transphobia, and homophobia have gone away. Where you set your story and what's going on in the environment around it are going to be really important when it comes to coming off as genuine.
And a few don'ts...
DON'T chase the latest trends. There are a lot of things that will date your work within the year, if not months. Twitter is nearly as dead as MySpace, no one says 'on fleek' anymore, and the latest iPhone is not going to sound impressive if someone reads your story two years from now. That isn't to say you should social media or cell phones entirely - that would be silly - or that you should try to disguise them by using some made-up name. Neither would really work. If TikTok is going to be in your characters' lives, talking about it even with a casual line is a better option than pretending it doesn't exist. But if you hinge your plot entirely on TikTok drama, and by the time your book or story comes out no one uses TikTok anymore, you'll be shooting yourself in the foot. Play it safe and lean into generics if your story heavily involves online behavior ('some stranger is sending me DMs' versus 'I'm being bullied via my Discord server's soundboard').
DON'T appropriate experiences that aren't yours. It's really tempting to project what you feel about current events into teen characters, and it's not wrong to write really passionately about something that affects both you and your teenage characters, but think it through. Does your white character single-handedly resolve racism in their school? That's just not going to happen. Is your character's heroic moment tackling the school shooter before he kills someone? Take a long step back and think about what these moments mean for the teens that go through them. You run the real risk of making their lives seem trite and meaningless by presenting an easy solution to a complex problem. A teenage hero with a sword may save a kingdom in a fantasy novel, but in the modern world, dealing with bigotry and violence are complicated issues that require solidarity, collective action, and allyship, not savorism.
DON'T cut corners by making your characters 'really into 80s music' or similar anachronistic interests. Listen, I know this is painful, but as popular as Stranger Things is, your teens characters are probably not listening the Best of the 80s on a regular basis when not in the car with their parents (or, uh, grandparents). They're likely not really into TLC, I doubt they can name all the Spice Girls. You may think you're giving them a funny quirk by having them be really into something you know a lot about, but you risk alienating your audience. I've put down more than one YA book because the author couldn't explain why her teen character loved U2, but couldn't name Taylor Swift if she tried. This... doesn't work. You may not listen to Doja Cat or Charli XCX, but you're doing yourself and your characters a disfavor in not considering who the artist or actor they care about is, and why. Figuring out what your characters are into can be really worth the insight it brings. You can, of course, skip pop culture for the most part if your plot doesn't touch it - but don't believe for a second your characters don't know who Ariana Grande is, c'mon.
Angie Thomas's THE HATE THAT U GIVE is a classic for a lot of reasons, but a big part of it is that she's able to juggle all of the above without coming off as insincere or contrite. Her main character knows that dealing with police violence is complicated. Tupac Shakur's music plays an important part of the book because it's relevant to the character and her experiences, not just because it's something the author knew well. And Starr Carter didn't save the world from the problems plaguing her, but she did take a stand against them. Angie Thomas's work is a masterclass in understanding how teenagers think even if you aren't one, and I'd recommend reading them to get a feel for how to handle a teenage voice.
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AITA for annoying the shit out of my partner constantly? The other day me and my partner were on a discord call and I kept playing sounds on the soundboard. They said they wanna bash my head into a wall for it which was very very mean!! They also called me stupid and annoying like the bitch they are so
What are these acronyms?
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What is your favorite image and/or soundâŠ.
oh mt fod thats a really hard quesrion. i feel like i would give u different answers depending on the day...

favorite image might have to be hope everyone enjoyed it pitbull. i have a lot of fave images but this pne is very versatile i could send it to just about anyone. Favorite sound is harder im trying to think of faborite sound thats not specifically a video just the sound itself...... half-life crowbar sound effect is always a good bet........ HL scientists going Stop! Ack! No! No! are also very good. ohjjthis is hard. i put a soujdboard in my friends discord of a walking in the vents sound from fnaf2 ive been fond of that one lately. ohhhhhhhhhhh........ tough question.......... ialso have a soundboard clip of wesker in code veronica of hte bit where he goes Alexia?! and throws chris across the room. i have a lot of favorite sounds and i couldnt narrow it dowj so easily ouggughhhh....... tough question..... um final answer: clown honk befause again very versatile. and i like to make that noise when i pretend to honk my nose it entertains me because im 5 years old
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Another Million Dollar Idea
So lately I've been doing lots of listed and unlisted streams from the Playstation 5. Mostly unlisted. Previously, when I wanted to stream something to my friends, I'd have to open the Elgato on my desktop and pipe that in through Discord, which works but isn't ideal.
For one, my PC is rapidly showing its age, so I have to dump the Elgato down to 720p30 because Discord chugs when capturing this window. Mostly it's good at auto-cropping to only the gameplay, but sometimes it gets confused and will capture the entire window, where you see the settings and buttons. So it kinda sucks.
The easier way to do that is to start up an unlisted YouTube live stream to my dump channel and link it to my friends on Discord. Whatever resolution I want, 60fps, no muss, no fuss. Quick and painless. Here's a stream from the other day where I showed a friend the new version of Asphalt 9 for PS5. It's just raw gameplay footage, no mic:
And, when I want to do a bigger stream, with all my alerts, pop-ups, sounds and rewards, I can always warm up OBS and stream to Twitch properly.
Recently, I house sat for a cousin for eight days. I treat this like a vacation. I can't really work on videos or games or podcasts very much, so I just kick back and chill out. And since these consoles can stream, I can do very long (like 6+ hour) streams easy-peasy.
But let's be real: streaming to Twitch through the PS5 (and the PS4) sucks. I'd have to go in and turn off all my alerts and buttons and overlays, because none of that works on the console stream. The whole thing feels extremely limited, and it's even worse on PS5, where it will automatically end your broadcast if you try to switch games.
But this time around I tried to get something going where I could still get all of my fancy notifications and graphics and still stream from the PS5. The hope was to use remote play on my laptop with the PS5 in the same room, but remote play is too thirsty on the bandwidth for that. Or my 13 year old laptop just can't hang running both OBS and Remote Play at the same time.
youtube
But it made me wonder: why should it have to be like this? Game consoles now are more like computers than ever before. There's nothing stopping these systems from supporting real streaming features, like overlays and pop-ups.
And it feels like a deeply untapped market, when you think about it. Imagine if, say, Microsoft came out swinging that the Xbox Series X was the one stop box for professional streamers. Full support for customizable Twitch alerts and overlays, a way to set up soundboards, browser sources, trigger ad breaks, run polls, etc. etc. etc.
Like, think about Elgato. Elgato sells streaming hardware for the PC. Capture cards, lights, cameras, shortcut decks, teleprompters, the works. Streaming and video production is a huge business for them.
If Microsoft or Sony cut in on that market a little bit and rebranded their console as The Only Streaming Hardware You'll Ever Need? Imagine branded streams and the loyalty that could generate.
And these systems have USB ports, obviously. They support common headset protocols through the headphone jack. You can plug professional equipment into them already. Why not have built-in hardware support for that?
The answer is that Microsoft and Sony probably only support Twitch begrudgingly, because some bean counter is annoyed they're "giving money away." After all, Microsoft owned and shut down Mixer. For a time they'd much rather you stay off of Twitch. When you see ads and buy subs they want some of that cut going their way, not to Amazon.
Which is ultimately very short sighted. Microsoft in particular has been rolling over and giving up a lot of ground the last three to five years. If they rebranded as the Xbox being the console for streamers to start and maintain a career over the long term, they could lock in a market that only exists on the PC right now.
If anyone at Microsoft or Playstation is reading this and uses this as inspiration I will take a one time payment of $250,000 for being the world's best ideas guy.
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