#Vlog script

[sixeyesonathiel]

told the nerd to film it and he exported inside me instead!

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

synopsis : you crushed on him for months, watched him dodge every advance like you were malware. so you dressed up a little, played a little dumber—and now he’s got you spread out in pixels and moaning in surround sound. worst part? you kinda want him to do it again.

tags/cw — masturbation, degradation, praise kink, dacryphilia, marking, overstimulation, explicit language, filming, voyeurism, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, power dynamics, obsession, lingerie, virgin weeb satoru, questionable but effective way of seducing ur crush. 13k wc, 18+ only, minors DNI.

a/n : plz don't nitpick about how a fashion vlog shouldn't be like that bc that's the point. toru doesn't know the difference because all he watches is 2d girls

the compressor’s peaking again.

satoru squints at the waveform, drags the threshold down two decibels, then listens back to the same three-second clip of voiceover for the tenth time. it’s a podcast intro, some wannabe influencer droning about mindfulness. he doesn’t care. he’s just here to make it sound less like it was recorded in a bathroom.

“sounds like shit,” he mutters, even though it’s clean. crisp. perfectly balanced.

it doesn’t feel right. nothing ever does. he tweaks the bitrate, checks the export codec, wonders if he should build a custom ffmpeg preset. maybe write a quick script to batch clean all future files—something to shave off a few milliseconds of his life. his fingers hover over the keyboard, itching for efficiency, for control.

ping.

discord overlay glows in the corner of his ultrawide monitor, a neon-green intrusion on his meticulously organized desktop. he freezes. the notification pulses like a heartbeat.

you.

he stares at it, lets it sit there like it’s radioactive. doesn’t even remember keeping you added. your username—something stupid with a heart emoji—feels like a splinter under his skin. he should’ve purged his contacts months ago, but here you are, slipping through the cracks of his digital fortress.

hey. remember when u edited our project? can u help me trim some vids pls…

his jaw tightens. of course you’d ask now, at 2 a.m., when he’s neck-deep in audio plugins and caffeine. his fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to dismiss you.

“no,” he types, then erases it.

“what kind of vids,” he tries, but deletes that too. too eager. too curious.

after a solid twenty-five seconds of overthinking, he finally sends:

i guess. send what you have.

he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. his room is a cave of glowing screens and scattered energy drink cans, the hum of his overclocked pc the only sound besides his own shallow breathing. he shouldn’t care. you’re just another art student, another distraction. but his pulse betrays him, thudding a little too hard in his throat.

flashback.exe

he hated group projects. despised them. a bunch of useless art students in overpriced streetwear, trying to make films with no understanding of pacing or continuity.

they’d fumble with premiere pro like it was rocket science, leaving him to clean up their shaky cuts and mismatched audio tracks. he always ended up doing 90% of the work, and he preferred it that way. control was his god, and he worshipped it.

but you were different.

not better. just... a different kind of stupid.

you showed up late to the editing suite, glitter pens spilling out of your bag, heart stickers plastered on your water bottle like a middle schooler’s diary. you called the lav mic a “weird nipple thing” and giggled when he glared at you. once, you spilled your lip gloss on the soundboard, leaving a sticky pink smear he had to scrub off with isopropyl alcohol. another time, you asked if uploading to drive made your data heavier, and he almost threw you out.

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

you didn’t hover or micromanage. you just sat there, cross-legged on a swivel chair, watching him cut scenes like it was magic. you leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath, your wide eyes reflecting the glow of the timeline.

“whoa... you made it feel like a real movie,” you whispered, like he’d just parted the red sea.

you smelled like something artificial. strawberries, maybe, or some overpriced body mist from a mall kiosk. your hair was always tied with a ribbon—pink, blue, sometimes yellow, always obnoxiously bright.

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

the zip file lands in his downloads with an obnoxious ka-chunk, snapping him out of the memory. he doesn’t rush. just opens it like it’s any other favor, like his heart isn’t clawing at his ribcage. the folder name stares back at him: “pls help <3”

typical.

he clicks it open, expecting shaky iphone clips of cafes and shopping hauls. maybe some cringe tiktok dance you think is cute. he’s ready to hate it, to scoff at your lack of framing or shitty lighting.

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

you’re biting your lip, laughing into the lens like it’s your lover. wearing something stupidly short—a skirt that barely qualifies as fabric, hugging your thighs like it’s painted on. you spin around in front of your mirror, the camera catching every angle, every curve, like you’re being filmed for someone else. someone who’d appreciate it.

you pose. cock your head. giggle. the sound is loud, breathy, smiling when you speak. “do you think this is too short?” you ask, tugging the hem of your skirt, your fingers lingering just a second too long.

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

your laugh echoes through his headphones, a little distorted, a little too close. he pretends he’s checking the audio, tells himself it’s for sync, that he’s just doing his job. but his eyes are glued to the screen, to the way your skirt rides up as you twirl, to the flash of skin that makes his breath catch.

he watches again.

his mouth is dry, his tongue heavy against his teeth. your skirt flips up higher this time, and you gasp—like you’re surprised, like you didn’t mean to show that much. but you don’t stop filming. don’t cover up. just... laugh, a sound that curls around his spine and sinks into his gut.

he doesn’t even realize his hand is moving until it’s there, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. his fingers brush against himself, and he hisses, the contact sharp and sudden. he’s already half-hard, his body betraying him before his brain can catch up. the room feels too warm, the hum of his pc too loud, but he doesn’t care. he can’t care.

he rewinds the clip again, pauses on the frame where you’re mid-spin, your skirt flared just enough to show the curve of your ass. his hand wraps around his cock, slow at first, tentative, like he’s testing how far he’ll let himself go. the texture of his own skin is rough, familiar, but it’s not enough. not when it’s you on the screen, laughing like you know he’s watching, like you’re daring him to lose control.

he strokes himself, a tight, deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing over the tip where he’s already leaking. the sensation jolts him, makes his hips twitch in the chair.

he imagines it’s your hand, your fingers—small, soft, probably clumsy, but eager. he pictures you kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those wide eyes, your lips parted like they are in the video, glossy and pink and begging to be kissed. or more.

the video plays on. you’re bending over now, adjusting your hair in the mirror, your skirt riding up to expose the thin strip of your underwear. he groans, low and guttural, his hand moving faster.

the sound of your voice—teasing, playful—fills his headphones, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him. “do you think this is too short?” you say again, and he wants to answer, wants to growl that it’s perfect, that you’re perfect, that he’d rip it off you if he could.

his grip tightens, his strokes growing erratic. he’s not gentle with himself—never is. it’s all pressure and friction, chasing the edge as fast as he can.

his free hand fumbles with the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back to the moment you gasp, to the split-second flash of your thighs. he loops it, the clip stuttering in time with his breathing, with the slick sound of his hand working himself over. his cock throbs, hot and heavy, and he imagines it’s you—your warmth, your wetness, the way you’d probably whimper if he touched you like this.

he’s close. too close.

his vision blurs at the edges, his pulse hammering in his ears. he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be jerking off to your stupid video like some desperate creep, but the shame only makes it worse, makes it sharper.

he pictures you catching him, walking in right now, seeing him with his pants down and his hand on his dick. would you laugh? would you blush? would you get on your knees and—

he comes with a choked gasp, his hips bucking up into his hand. it’s messy, spilling over his fingers, onto the hem of his shirt. his chest heaves, his head tilting back against the chair as the aftershocks ripple through him. your laugh loops in his headphones, oblivious to the wreck he’s become.

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

ten minutes later, he’s cleaned himself up, his hands steady again as he trims the file like a good little editor. he cuts out the shaky parts, stabilizes the footage, adjusts the audio so your voice doesn’t clip. it’s clinical now, professional, like he didn’t just fall apart to the sight of you. he names it something sterile: “vlog_cut_1.mov.”

he exports it twice. once normally, for you. once... not. the second version is raw, unedited, every twirl and giggle preserved in crisp 4k. it gets copied to a different folder, buried in a directory labeled “shader_study_2022.” he tells himself it’s in case you need a re-edit. a backup. that’s all.

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. his heart’s still racing, a faint tremor in his fingers.

he types “anytime :)” and erases it. sends:

np.

what he doesn’t say: he rewatched the part where you bend over six times. he had his dick in his hand by the second loop. he renamed the close-up to “test_render_asscloseup.mov” and hid it behind three layers of subfolders.

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

he’s into 2d, girls with big swords and bigger tits, drawn in sharp lines and impossible proportions. he once bought a dakimakura because the shipping came with a free pin, and it’s still shoved in his closet, one corner stained from a late-night mistake. real girls are messy, unpredictable, too much work. but now?

he’s thinking about the way your laugh dipped when you turned around, the way it caught in your throat like you were nervous. the way you looked into the lens like you knew someone was watching.

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

pink fuzzy shrug, low-rise jeans that sit dangerously low on your hips, a sliver of stomach peeking out like it’s 2004. your hair’s up in a ribbon—pink, of course, swaying as you move. you’re all glitter and confidence, a walking distraction in a lecture hall full of tired students and flickering projectors.

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

but his heart’s pounding, a traitor in his chest. his fingers twitch against the edge of his laptop, betraying the calm he’s trying to project. you slide into the seat two rows ahead and twist around, grinning like a cat, like you know something he doesn’t.

your eyes catch his for a split second, bright and teasing, and he forces himself to look away.

he opens his laptop, types random garbage into a terminal window—some half-baked python script he doesn’t even care about. he runs a fake compile just to feel busy, to drown out the way his blood is rushing too fast.

you lean over to whisper to the girl next to you, your laugh spilling out, loud and careless. your hair tosses, and he swears he catches the scent of your perfume drifting past in invisible waves. saccharine, overwhelming, like strawberries dipped in sugar syrup.

his brain short-circuits. he snaps his headphones on, the cord tangling in his haste. not to listen to music. not to block you out.

to replay your giggle.

he’d isolated the audio last night, cleaned it up with a high-pass filter, boosted the mids to make it crystal clear. exported it as a high-quality .wav, tucked it into a folder labeled “audio_ref.” he tells himself it’s for study, just good reference for future projects. but he loops it now, the sound of your laugh layered over faint lo-fi static he added for texture. it’s you, distilled into a three-second clip, filling his skull.

he closes his eyes and pretends you’re saying his name. satoru, you giggle, breathy and soft, like you’re leaning over his shoulder again, watching him work. satoru, you made it feel so real.

the lecture drones on, but he’s not listening. he’s lost in the rhythm of your voice, the way it dips and rises, the way it makes his skin feel too tight. he shifts in his seat, adjusts his hoodie, tries to ignore the heat pooling in his gut. he’s not supposed to want this. not supposed to want you.

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

no dramatic thunderclap. no internal monologue screaming, ah yes, now i am a pervert. it’s quiet. insidious. it sinks in like static, crackling at the edges of satoru’s brain until he’s not sure where his old self ends and this new, wretched version begins.

it’s not like he’s not already a pervert who gets off from pixels. this simply wasn’t his brand of perversion.

that night, he stayed up longer than he should’ve. stared at code for so long his ide crashed, the screen flickering to black as if it knew he was wasting his time. not that he got anything done. 

he just kept switching tabs—your final cut in vlc, some useless bash script in vscode he pretended to care about, then back to your video, the timeline frozen on that twirl, that gasp. his fingers shook when he closed the laptop, but sleep never came.

and now it’s the next day. mid-afternoon. the sun is doing that thing where it turns his apartment into a blinding box of heat and regret. his ac hums like an old man, wheezing against the sticky air. he’s sprawled in his chair, one leg slung over the armrest, staring at the ceiling fan like it might tell him how to stop.

ping.

another discord notification. he doesn’t even flinch this time. your username glows, and the filename attached makes his stomach do a weird little roll: “try-on2_raw.mov”. his eyes linger on the heart emoji you’ve tacked onto the message, like it’s a personal invitation.

hiii! ty for the last edit, ur a lifesaver <3 can u check and trim this one too? i’m trying smth new but idk if it works… lmk what u think pls!!

he clicks download. no hesitation. doesn’t even pretend to care anymore.

the file loads into his editing software like second nature, the premiere pro interface blooming across his screen. muscle memory. routine.

he’s done this a hundred times—except never like this, never with his pulse hammering in his throat and his mouth already dry.

the video starts the same way as the last—handheld, messy lighting, your voice trailing in from offscreen as you fiddle with the camera angle. no mic, of course not. just raw cam audio, unpolished, real, every breath and rustle amplified. he leans closer, like proximity to the screen will make it less dangerous.

“okay—wait, hold on,” you mutter, slightly out of breath. there’s a plastic rustle, fabric scraping skin, the light jingle of a zipper. he catches the sound of your nails tapping the digicam accidentally, a faint clack-clack that makes him picture your fingers, probably painted some ridiculous color, fumbling in that endearing way you do. 

“ugh… come on…” your voice drops, a frustrated huff, low and throaty. “mm—sorry! this one’s hard to pull up.”

then—zipper slides. metal on fabric, slow and deliberate, like it’s teasing him on purpose. you let out a sigh, long, slow, just a little too satisfied, like you’re savoring the release of pressure. the sound coils in his gut, tight and hot.

he freezes.

his mouse stays hovering over the playhead, the cursor trembling slightly. blood is already rushing south, his sweatpants tightening in a way he can’t ignore. his breath catches, shallow and sharp, and the worst part?

you giggle.

“probably got the wrong size,” you say, tugging the dress up higher. the hem catches on your thighs, rising indecently, the fabric clinging to your skin like it’s reluctant to let go. “don’t tell anyone i didn’t try it on in-store first.”

he swallows nothing. jaw tight. the room suddenly feels suffocating, the ac’s hum drowned out by the thud of his own pulse. your lip catches between your teeth, a flash of white against pink gloss, and the camera catches that too, lingers on it like it knows what it’s doing.

you glance at the lens, eyes half-lidded, like you’re waiting for approval, like you’re asking him directly—do you like this?

satoru’s fingers twitch.

one hand stays on the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back three seconds to hear that sigh again. the other hand moves before he can stop it, slipping under his waistband, brushing against the heat of his skin. he’s already hard, achingly so, the kind of hard that makes his head swim.

he wraps his fingers around himself, slow at first, testing, like he’s not sure he’s really doing this again. but the sound of your voice—breathy, teasing—loops in his headphones, and he’s gone.

he strokes himself, deliberate and tight, his grip almost punishing. the video plays on, and you’re stepping into frame now, the dress half-zipped, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat burn. your thighs shift as you adjust the hem, and he imagines them under his hands, soft and warm, parting just for him.

his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he groans, low and broken, the sound swallowed by the hum of his pc. he pictures your fingers instead, clumsy but eager, your nails grazing his skin as you try to keep up with his rhythm.

he’d guide you, show you how he likes it—fast, rough, no mercy.

you sigh again, and he speeds up, his hand moving in time with the rise and fall of your voice. “this one’s kinda tight,” you murmur, tugging at the neckline, and the fabric stretches, exposing the swell of your chest.

he wants to rip it off, wants to hear you gasp for real, not for the camera but for him. his strokes grow erratic, desperate, the slick sound of his hand filling the room, obscene and unstoppable.

he scrubs the timeline back again, pauses on the frame where your dress slips, where your underwear peeks out—a thin, lacy thing that makes his vision blur. he imagines pulling it aside, imagines the heat of you, the way you’d whimper if he pressed himself inside.

he’s close, too close, his hips twitching up into his hand. the video loops your giggle, that satisfied sigh, and he’s drowning in it, in you.

he pictures you catching him like this, walking into his apartment right now, seeing him with his pants down and his cock in his hand, flushed and leaking. would you laugh? would you blush? would you drop to your knees and let him finish on your lips, glossy and perfect and—

he comes with a muted groan, his head tipping back, eyes screwed shut as his release spills over his fingers, hot and messy. his breath shakes, a ragged exhale that leaves him hollow. the aftershocks pulse through him, and he slumps in his chair, the video still playing, your voice oblivious to the wreckage you’ve caused.

he pauses the frame. your mouth is mid-word, forming the shape of “oops,” lips parted just enough to make his chest ache. he wipes his hand on a paper towel from his desk, crumpled and stained from earlier sins. doesn’t look at himself. doesn’t think.

exports the file without touching a thing. names it “final_edit.mov.” then saves another copy, the raw footage, every sigh and rustle preserved. he names it “jesusfuckingchrist.mp4” and buries it in a folder labeled “misc_ref.”

he tries to normalize it.

“it’s just grading,” he mutters the next time he opens the project, the lie sour on his tongue. “just adjusting white balance.” but the playback bar hasn’t moved from your thighs. he doesn’t touch the colors. not really.

he zooms in under the excuse of checking “grain smoothing,” but it’s just your lip, caught between your teeth, your breath clipped at the edges like you’re holding back.

he tells himself he’s just learning.

every artist has their muse, right? except now he edits to your audio. he used to play podcasts, background noise to keep his brain from spiraling.

now? your breathing is layered into the timeline, a track he’s labeled “vox_ref.” he loops your laugh in reverse, lets it pan from left to right like it’s some surround sound experience.

“this is practice,” he whispers, dragging eq curves around nonsense, boosting the highs until your voice is sharp and intimate. “i’m experimenting with filters.”

right. filters. filters until your voice sounds like it’s right by his ear, like you’re whispering in bed, your breath warm against his skin. he plays a clip of you saying “do you like this one?” over and over, the words detached from context.

he doesn’t even care what you’re referring to anymore. he’s got that part memorized, the way your voice dips, soft and unsure, like you’re asking him to love you.

the next class is worse.

you walk past him in that fuzzy pink shrug thing, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder, and it’s like a bomb goes off in his chest. the fabric clings to you, soft and teasing, and he wants to grab it, pull it down, see how much skin you’ll let him have.

you lean down to plug your charger in, your jeans riding low—too low, the kind of low that makes him wonder how they’re even allowed on campus. he catches a glimpse of your underwear, a flash of lace, and his brain whites out.

he glares at his laptop, scoffs under his breath. “that outfit’s… desperate.” the word feels like a blade, sharp and mean, but it’s all he’s got to keep you at a distance.

your head tilts, innocent, eyes wide like you’re genuinely curious. “you think so?” you say it like you mean it, like you don’t already know the answer, like you haven’t watched your own footage and seen what he’s seen.

he shrugs, keeps scowling, doesn’t look at you. his fingers grip the edge of his laptop too hard, knuckles white. behind the screen, he’s got a paused frame of you licking lip gloss off your thumb, minimized in the corner. it’s been open since he got here.

his file structure is disintegrating. he used to name things with logic—timestamps, project codes, version numbers. now his desktop looks like a manifesto, a digital shrine to his unraveling. “vlog_tryon_final.mov.” “edit_3alt.mp4.” “fuckmeagain_laughcut.mov.” there’s a folder called “NOT work (unless)” that he doesn’t even open anymore, too afraid of what he’ll find.

he tries to draw a line, but it’s blurry. always blurry. he doesn’t know where the edit ends and obsession begins. when he dreams, he dreams about zippers—except they’re not zipzers. they’re your legs, parting slow and deliberate, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer.

a new text lights up his screen:

 hey! idk if the last one looks good… should i redo it? it felt kinda awkward lol sorry T_T

you sound insecure, unsure, your words dripping with that self-conscious charm that makes his chest hurt. he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, his mind spiraling.

you don’t know, do you? you don’t know what you’re doing to him, how your voice alone is enough to make him hard again.

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

satoru watches the word clean sit there like a fucking lie. his dick twitches, traitor that it is.

he hates himself.

but he opens the raw file again. scrubs through, frame by frame, until he finds that timestamp—where you moan, soft and accidental, like you didn’t mean to let it slip. he watches it, his headphones sealing him in with the sound of you. he exports that single second, names it “moan_finalgodhelpme.mp4,” and tucks it away like a secret he’ll never confess.

the timeline sits open, your frozen frame staring back at him. he doesn’t close it. doesn’t want to.

it starts with static in his skull.

not the loud, electric kind that chokes you up or begs to be noticed. it’s quiet. a whir, like an old fan that never shuts off, humming behind his thoughts. when satoru drags his mouse across the screen and sees your name still on the folder, it buzzes—faint, familiar, a sickness with your scent.

he changes the name from “NOT work (unless)” to “ARCHIVE_21,” moves it to a different directory, pretends it’s work, or dead, or both. but the static doesn’t stop. it clings, sticky and warm, like your laugh looping in his headphones.

it doesn’t help.

not when he dreams in highlighter gloss and those half-bitten whines you make when stretching, your body arching just so. not when he wakes up rutting into damp sheets, mouthing your name like a damn prayer, his hips jerking against nothing. the shame burns, but it’s not enough to make him stop.

satoru’s trying.

really.

he takes up freelance gigs, edits wedding footage for some guy he hasn’t spoken to since second year. overlays cheesy filters, mutes the groom’s ugly laugh, syncs the vows to some overused acoustic track. it’s clean. respectable. sterile enough to make him itch, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. but the folder’s still there, buried in his drive like it knows he’ll come back.

2:03 a.m.

his inbox pings, a sharp sound that cuts through the drone of his pc fans. your name lights up the screen, and his chest tightens before he even reads the message.

hiii satoru!! sorry for the late send, been sooo busy <3 can u take a look at this haul vid? i tried smth spicy but idk if it’s too much… lmk what u think pretty pls!!

march haul (raw).mp4

he knows he shouldn’t. there’s no logical reason, no business context, just the weight of your words—spicy, pretty pls—sinking into his gut. but his hands move on their own, clicking download, the progress bar filling like a fuse burning down.

click.

of course he does.

the video starts soft, your bedroom light diffused to a golden haze, casting shadows that dance across rumpled sheets. it looks like you’ve been tossing in them all day, the fabric creased and inviting.

you’re in lace—barely. something soft pink and flimsy, a slip of fabric that clings to your curves like it’s begging to be torn off.

your thigh’s out, one leg bent just enough to draw his eye, and the camera’s angled low, too low, like you meant to frame it this way.

“god, i hope this one fits…” your voice is breathy, a little strained, like you’re fighting the fabric. you adjust a strap, your fingers lingering on the lace, and your lip catches between your teeth, glossy and pink, a casual gesture that’s anything but. his breath stutters, a sharp inhale that burns his throat.

“oops, sorry—too much cleavage?” you laugh, not to yourself but at him.

he knows it.

his cock knows it, twitching against the seam of his sweatpants. the screen shakes as you set the camera on something unsteady—a stack of books, maybe—and it rocks just as you turn around, hips swaying, your ass hugged by that tiny thong, the lace cutting into your skin like a claim. you glance back over your shoulder, smirk poised like a dagger, eyes glinting in the soft light.

“i bet you’d pause right here, wouldn’t you?”

he does.

the video cuts mid-breath, and he doesn’t hear the silence. he’s frozen, hand halfway down, brain wiped clean. the frame lingers on your ass, the curve of it framed by lace, and his mouth is dry, his pulse hammering so loud it drowns out the static.

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

oops. wrong send lol. this is the real one!

his screen is still painted with the freeze-frame of your ass. his dick’s straining so hard it aches, a dull throb that makes him shift in his chair. he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move for a full minute, just stares at the message, the word oops taunting him. then—

he saves both files. drags them into “ARCHIVE_21” with a trembling cursor, his fingers clumsy on the trackpad. he opens the raw one again, slower this time, one hand on his lap, the other fisting his sheets until the fabric creaks.

you’re back on screen, adjusting the strap again, your laugh curling through his headphones like smoke. his hand slips under his waistband, and he’s already leaking, the tip slick and sensitive as he grips himself.

he strokes slow, deliberate, savoring the friction, but his mind’s elsewhere—on the hentai he’s spent years jerking off to, the doujins with dog-eared pages and cum-stained corners.

he pictures you like those girls, bent over and begging, your lace thong pushed to the side as he fucks you from behind, your moans louder, needier, than anything you’ve let slip on camera.

he imagines pinning you to those rumpled sheets, your thighs trembling under his hands, your ass bouncing with every thrust. no teasing giggles, no coy glances—just you, fucked out and whimpering, his name on your lips as he buries himself deep, so deep you can’t think.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of his room. he scrubs the timeline back, pauses on the moment you turn, your smirk sharp and knowing.

he wants to wipe it off, wants to fuck you until you’re too wrecked to smile, until you’re clawing at the sheets and sobbing his name. he imagines your cunt, tight and wet, gripping him as he pounds into you, the lace of your thong rubbing raw against his skin.

it’s not enough to watch you anymore, not enough to stroke himself to your voice—he wants to ruin you, wants to feel you break under him, wants to make you his in a way those 2d girls never could.

he cums with a low, breathy whisper of your name, his hips jerking up into his hand. it’s intense, almost painful, spilling over his fingers and onto the hem of his shirt.

his chest heaves, his vision blurring as he slumps back, the video still playing, your laugh oblivious to the mess he’s become. he opens it again, doesn’t touch himself this time—just watches, memorizes, eyes glassy and mouth parted.

at one point, he swears he moans with you, a soft sound that slips out unbidden, his body betraying him even when he’s spent. when he edits the “real” file, he’s a machine. no stutters, no slips, just sharp keystrokes and surgical cuts, trimming shaky frames and boosting your voice until it’s crisp.

the guilt claws at him, a dull ache in his chest, but it only makes the next orgasm worse—and better. he exports it, names it “haul_march_final.mov,” and saves the raw file to a new subfolder: “stills_ref.” he doesn’t name the second copy. doesn’t need to. it’s just for him.

he plays it cool in class. “wow. another fit straight outta your grandma’s closet,” he scoffs as you pass, voice dripping with mockery, lips curling into something lazy and mean.

but his gaze flickers—just once, low and quick, like he’s checking for danger. and there it is. a flash of soft pink lace against the curve of your thigh as you shift your bag higher up your shoulder. just a sliver. deliberate.

he knows that lace. knows it from the raw footage, from the way it hugged your skin under golden light. his smirk falters for half a second, a crack in his armor.

you turn your head, slow as syrup, and smile at him over your shoulder. it’s airy, innocent, ditzy enough to play dumb, poisonous enough to feel like a threat. “mm? that bad, huh?” your voice is light, but your eyes linger a moment too long, sharp and knowing, like you’re peeling him open.

you take your seat two rows away, crossing one leg over the other with careful grace. your skirt rides up, just enough to show the edge of that lace again, and your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem, brushing the fabric like it’s a game.

he doesn’t blink.

he knows what’s under that skirt, knows the way that lace bites into your skin when you move just like that. he’s seen it in soft lighting, tangled with shadows and sighs. he knows, and you know, and neither of you say a word.

he can’t breathe.

his hand trembles as he grips his pen, scrawling nonsense on the corner of his notes—random numbers, jagged lines, anything to keep his fingers busy.

someone’s asking a question about identity and performance, something about how we present ourselves versus how we wish to be perceived, and satoru’s already halfway to standing.

“sorry. washroom.” his voice cracks halfway through the lie, too sharp, too rushed.

satoru stumbles into the men’s room like he’s escaping a crime scene, the door clicking shut behind him. palm flat against cold tile, forehead pressed to the inside of his wrist, he tries to breathe, tries to think of anything else—code, deadlines, the wedding edit he’s behind on.

but it’s you.

always you. your smile, your laugh, the lace peeking out like a taunt.

he’s already hard, already leaking, the front of his jeans tight and unforgiving. he fumbles with the button, shoves them down just enough, and grips himself, his hand shaking as he strokes.

he closes his eyes and sees you—not the you in class, not the you playing dumb, but the you from his fantasies, the you he’s built from hentai panels and late-night desperation. he imagines you on your knees, lace thong pulled down, your cunt glistening as he fucks you against the bathroom sink.

no giggles, no teasing—just raw, desperate need, your moans echoing off the tiles as he slams into you, his hands bruising your hips, your body arching to take him deeper.

he wants you messy, wants you marked, wants to fill you until you’re dripping, until you’re his in a way that’s permanent.

he strokes faster, his breath hitching, his teeth sinking into his knuckles to muffle the groan clawing up his throat. he cums hard, too fast, his knees buckling as it spills over his hand, hot and shameful. he shakes, gasping, his forehead slick against the tile, and thinks of lace. thinks of lip gloss. thinks of your voice saying “oops” like it’s a sin.

it doesn’t take long for his desktop to become an altar.

the background’s still you, a freeze-frame from the first video, your lip gloss shimmering and fingers caught mid-twist in your hair. he tells himself it’s temporary, just a visual reference.

it’s been three weeks.

folders on folders: “hauls > favs > zoom_ins > stills > pantyshots.” “audio_samples > moan_loop > breath_only.wav.” “color tests > gloss_ref > lips.png.”

some nights, he replays a single frame just to watch your mouth form the word “fuck,” slows it down, isolates the syllables, pretends you’re saying his name instead.

the worst part?

you’re still pretending nothing’s changed. still calling them “favors,” still sending content like it’s work, like it’s nothing.

but your outfits are shorter, your giggles stick to the air longer, your eyes linger like you’re testing something. and when you purr, “you’re sooo good at this, satoru,” with that saccharine lilt, your voice curling around his name like a caress, he bites the inside of his cheek just to keep quiet. fists the sheets at night and prays.

he moans your name in the dark, face hot with shame, and hates how much he wants you to hear it.

satoru’s become sleep-deprived, dark smudges nesting beneath his eyes like fingerprints left behind by guilt or obsession or both. he wears his glasses more lately, less out of need and more as a buffer between him and the world—between him and you.

the lenses catch the glow of his new triple-monitor setup, a sleek beast he told himself was for coding, for editing, for multitasking. not for keeping your videos looping on the side monitor while he pretends to work on the main one. not for that at all.

your folder’s pinned in quick access, a permanent fixture in his file explorer. he keeps it open in the background at all times, a digital pulse that hums alongside his pc fans. second nature now, like breathing or wanting. not unlike a shrine.

in class, he pretends to take notes, his stylus scratching nonsense on his tablet. he’s not. he’s watching a gif on his phone, hidden under the desk—a loop of your tongue dragging slow across lip gloss, eyes soft with focus like you’re painting yourself pretty just for him. the gif’s only three seconds, but he’s memorized every frame, every flicker of your lashes. his thumb swipes to replay it, again, again, until his vision blurs.

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

three days pass, and you haven’t messaged. he checks your chat thread more than he breathes—opens, closes, re-opens, scrolling through your old texts like they’ll reveal something new. every flicker of hope is a false start, a phantom ping that makes his chest lurch. he’s pathetic, he knows it, but knowing doesn’t stop the itch.

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

hii satoru!! new haul vid for u to check <3 tried some swimsuits this time, hope it’s not too boring to trim hehe. lmk what u think!!”

he nearly drops his phone, his thumb smudging the screen as he fumbles to download. his new setup hums to life, the main monitor flashing with code he hasn’t touched in hours, the side monitor already open to your folder.

he drags the file into premiere, the timeline blooming across the screen, but his eyes are on the raw video, already playing on the right monitor, your voice spilling through his headphones like honey.

the video’s different this time. the camera’s lower, like it’s been left on a desk or shelf, pointing slightly upward to frame you from your knees to just above your head. your bed makes a cozy blur in the background, sheets tangled like an invitation.

you’re in a bikini top that isn’t trying very hard to stay on, thin strings knotted loosely at your neck and back, the fabric barely containing you. “mmm. does this scream summer, or slut?” you giggle, feigned innocence like frosting over heat, your voice curling around the words like you know exactly what they’ll do to him.

you play with the strings at your chest, tugging, adjusting, your fingers brushing the swell of your breasts. then, softer, breathier, to the lens: “baby, help me pick…”

baby.

it breaks him all over again, a crack that runs straight through his chest. his cock twitches, already hard, straining against his boxers.

everything after that gets softer, lazier, dangerous in how intimate it feels. there’s no performative energy now—just casual, candid seduction, your movements slow, like you’re not hurrying for anyone. like you know exactly who’s watching and how long he’ll linger.

when you shrug a dress off your shoulders, you sigh, the sound catching in your throat. when you twist to adjust a strap, you hum, low and absentminded. and when you struggle with a clasp at your back, your fingers fumbling, you moan—soft, unintentional, a sound that slips out like it surprised even you.

satoru’s thumb slams the spacebar, pausing the video, rewinding three seconds to hear it again. he watches the way your lips part, the way your brows twitch, the way your body shifts like you’re chasing the sensation.

he’s already leaking, his boxers damp as he shoves them down, his hand wrapping around himself. the side monitor loops the raw footage, your moan playing over and over, while the main monitor holds the paused frame of your parted lips. he strokes slow at first, his grip tight, his thumb swiping over the tip where he’s slick and sensitive.

his mind slips to the doujins he’s hoarded, the hentai he’s spent years chasing—the girls with flushed cheeks and desperate eyes, fucked raw and begging for more. but now it’s you, not some inked fantasy, and it’s so much filthier.

he imagines you sprawled across your bed, that bikini top ripped off, your thighs spread wide as he fucks you deep, relentless, your cunt clenching around him as you sob his name. no teasing, no giggles—just you, wrecked and dripping, your nails clawing his back as he takes you again and again, each thrust harder, messier, until you’re nothing but his.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound loud in his room, mixing with your looped moan. he wants you pinned beneath him, wants to feel you squirm, wants to fuck you until the bed creaks and your voice breaks, until you’re begging like those hentai girls, your glossed lips trembling as you say his name—satoru, please, more.

he imagines filling you, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body marked by him in ways he can’t unsee. it’s not enough to watch, not enough to stroke—he wants to own you, wants to make you his in every way those 2d fantasies taught him to crave.

he cums hard, forehead pressed to his desk, a low groan tearing from his throat as it spills over his hand, his keyboard, the edge of his new setup. his breath is ragged, like he’s run a marathon, his glasses fogging slightly as he gasps.

the side monitor still plays, your voice oblivious, your moan looping like a hymn. he doesn’t stop the video, just slumps back, spent and shaking, and watches again, his hand twitching like it’s not done.

it doesn’t take long for his room to reek of sweat and sin.

he edits shirtless now, sometimes in boxers, always hard, always leaking. every file’s renamed with trembling hands: “wifey_take7.mov.” “wifey_raw.mp4.”

he syncs your sighs to his lo-fi playlist, turns it into a lullaby, falls asleep to the sound of your breath. sometimes he slows your voice just to hear “baby” dragged out into velvet, makes gifs of your hands skimming your hips, kisses the screen when he’s drunk enough to forget shame.

you, on the other hand, don’t break character.

in class, you chew your pen and lean forward, the arch of your spine exact, your cleavage subtle—barely a tease, just enough to make his throat tighten. he looks away with a clenched jaw, adjusts himself under the desk, twice, his jeans unforgiving.

you whisper to a friend and giggle, and he lipreads, thinks he sees the words “can’t wait,” but maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe not. it doesn’t matter.

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

“fuck yes, that one.” “spin again, baby.” sometimes he mumbles your name like a prayer, sometimes he chokes it into his pillow. every orgasm has your name carved into it, a brand he can’t erase.

one night, he opens a file to edit, drags it into premiere, but he doesn’t touch it. just watches, headphones in, barely breathing. not a content creator now, not a student, not even a man—just a creature of need, and you his ritual, his muse, his goddess.

the screen shows you adjusting the straps of a silky babydoll, the lighting warm, your thighs bare, half-tucked under you as you sit prettily at the edge of your bed.

“okay, so this one’s… like, totally giving ‘come to bed’ energy, right?” you giggle, voice light, teeth sinking into your glossed lip as you bounce once, soft and natural, the fabric barely covering your chest.

satoru groans low in his throat, not even trying to hide it. “it’s giving bend over,” he mutters, lips twitching, his side monitor looping the raw footage, his main screen frozen on your smile. “fuck, look at you…”

you reach behind you, struggle with the clasp, wiggle your shoulders like you’re teasing whoever’s behind the camera. “oof. that’s tight… should i size up?” a breathy laugh follows, your sigh melting into it.

he licks his lips, your audio crystal-clear in his headphones. you’re right there, talking to him. “nah, baby,” he croons, eyes fixed on the curve of your spine as you turn. “tight’s perfect. keeps the goods in place.”

you blow a kiss at the lens. “hope you’re not bored yet,” you say with a wink. “i saved the cutest for last…”

you bend off-frame, your ass peeking just above the edge of the bed, round and inviting in cotton panties with lace trim, and when you rise again, your hands hold something sheer and tiny. “tadaaa,” you whisper, eyes glinting with mischief. “this one’s for my favorite viewer.”

00:05:46—satoru slams the shortcut, timestamp saved. a second later, he screenshots, then again, then again, frame by frame, until he finds the exact one where your lip’s caught between your teeth and your ass is still halfway in the air.

“fucking perfect,” he mutters, breath uneven. he pulls the image up on his main screen, zooms in, sharpens it, runs it through noise reduction. the side monitor loops the raw video, your voice sweet and teasing, while the right monitor plays a gif of your earlier moan, your lips parted in that soft, accidental sound.

his hand’s already moving, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free, hard and leaking like it’s been waiting for this. 

he grips himself, rough and urgent, no pretense of patience. the new setup’s perfect—your video on the side, his code on the main screen like he’s working, but it’s all you, every pixel, every sound.

he strokes in time with your giggle, his eyes flicking between the gif of your moan and the screenshot of your ass, his mind spiraling into the filthiest corners of his hentai-soaked brain.

he imagines you on that bed, face down, ass up, the babydoll hiked to your waist as he fucks you so hard the headboard cracks. he wants you screaming, wants your cunt pulsing around him, wants to pull your hair and make you look at him as he fills you, over and over, until you’re a mess, until you’re his completely.

his strokes are frantic, his breath hitching, his hips bucking into his hand. he pictures you tied to the bed, like that one doujin he read last month, your wrists bound with those same bikini strings, your thighs trembling as he fucks you through one orgasm into the next.

he wants to cum inside you, wants to watch it drip out, wants to push it back in with his fingers and make you lick them clean. it’s not enough to jerk off anymore, not enough to dream—he wants to break you, wants to make you real, wants to fuck you until you’re as addicted to him as he is to you.

he cums with a choked growl, his head tipping back, glasses slipping down his nose as it spills over his hand, his desk, the sticky mess splattering his keyboard.

he’s shaking, gasping, his chest heaving as the side monitor loops your voice, your “baby” purring like a mantra. his wrist’s sticky, his room a haze of sweat and shame, but he doesn’t care. he’s not even really here.

you’re everywhere now—three monitors, three altars, your image burned into his retinas. he’d worship on his knees if you asked.

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

sorry! idk if this one’s helpful but i liked the shots hehe

he doesn’t unzip his pants. doesn’t need to. he’s already throbbing from the inside out, his body reacting to your name alone. he clicks, watches, kneels, and whispers your name like a benediction, the static in his skull louder than ever.

it starts with a ping.

innocuous. a single pixel shift on the main monitor mid-code, just as satoru’s debugging a script for a deadline he already missed. his side monitor hums with your last video, paused on that frame where your lip’s caught between your teeth, and the third monitor’s open to a half-finished render he hasn’t touched in days. he glances lazily at the notification, expecting another reminder from suguru to shower or eat—

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

his fingers freeze. heart jams, a dull thud in his chest. the cursor blinks, waiting, mocking. he doesn’t think. doesn’t breathe. his glasses slip down his nose, and he doesn’t fix them. the words burn into his retinas, and his cock twitches before he can process why.

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

he sends it, his thumb trembling over the enter key. no reply. not for five whole minutes. the wait is a crucifixion, each second stretching into eternity. he keeps opening and closing the chat, rereading your words like they might shift into something dirtier, something more.

his triple-monitor setup glows, your frozen frame on the side monitor staring at him, lips parted, eyes glinting. he’s already leaking in his pants, a damp spot spreading against his thigh.

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

he reads it twice. three times. his breath catches, sharp and shallow, like he’s been punched. come over. your dorm. your space. he’s hard, achingly so, his boxers tight and unforgiving. he doesn’t reply, just slams his laptop shut, grabs his camera bag, and stumbles out the door.

he shows up twenty minutes later, barely remembered to wear deodorant, definitely forgot his dignity. his high-end sony alpha mirrorless—loaded with a lens that costs more than most people’s rent—bounces against his chest as he knocks. his palms are slick, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat of his own nerves.

you open the door with a giggle, wrapped in a pastel pink robe that might as well be air. it clings to the curve of your waist, parts at the thigh, revealing soft skin that makes his throat burn. your hair’s still damp, sticking to your collarbones, and the scent of vanilla lotion hits him like a drug. “thanks for coming! i’m kinda nervous…”

he wants to bark out same, but his jaw locks. he swallows instead, the motion too loud in his ears. “no problem.” his voice is gravel, like he’s choking on his own want. he steps inside, and your dorm swallows him whole—warm, cutesy, a pastel fever dream of plush throw pillows, fairy lights, and a pink velvet couch that looks too soft, too inviting.

he’s already imagining you bent over it, your robe hiked up, your moans echoing off the walls. it smells like you sprayed your strawberry perfume over every surface, dizzying, suffocating. his glasses fog again.

he sets up the tripod with shaking hands, the sony’s weight grounding him just enough to keep from falling apart. you bounce around the living room, humming, fluffing pillows on the couch, fixing your gloss in a heart-shaped mirror propped against a shelf.

“does this lighting make me look washed out?” you ask, stepping back, tilting your head. then you bend to adjust a lamp, and your robe parts just enough to reveal the gentle curve of your ass, bare except for a sliver of lace.

he sees. pretends he didn’t. fumbles the lens cap, twice, the plastic clattering to the floor. his face burns, but he keeps his eyes on the camera, adjusting settings he doesn’t need to touch.

you brush past him again and again, your bare arm glancing his, silk whispering across his knuckles when you pass. he smells shampoo in the air, thick and sweet, and it’s you, all you, sinking into his lungs. “you nervous?” you tease, voice light, a giggle curling at the edges.

he scoffs, wiping his palm against his jeans, the denim rough against his slick skin. “pfft. nah. i’ve filmed worse.” a lie, bold and brittle, his voice too tight to sell it.

“worse than me?” you pout, stepping closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. “ouch.”

“i didn’t say that.” his voice cracks, a hairline fracture. he’s too aware of you, of the way your robe slips an inch, of the way your eyes glint like you’re playing with him.

you tilt your head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “sooo… you have filmed pretty girls before?”

he falters, breath stuttering in his chest. he’s a virgin, hasn’t touched a girl in years, hasn’t wanted to—not when hentai’s been enough, when doujins have been his only lovers. but you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re breaking him.

“no one like you,” he says, unfiltered, raw, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

your lips curl, slow and sweet, a smile that says i know. “hm. figured.”

you disappear into your bedroom for a few minutes, the door clicking shut. he pretends to adjust the white balance, tweaking settings on the sony that are already perfect, but really he’s staring at the door like it owes him salvation.

his cock’s throbbing, a dull ache that won’t quit, and he shifts, trying to ease the pressure. the living room feels too small, the pink couch too soft, the fairy lights too intimate. he’s imagining you sprawled across that couch, your robe gone, your thighs spread, his camera capturing every gasp.

the door opens. you emerge. lingerie set, pale and sheer, a mini skirt that barely qualifies, lip gloss freshly reapplied. you look like a doll, saccharine and sinful, every curve a taunt. “can you help me zip this?” you turn, bare back exposed, the zipper halfway up, your spine a perfect line that begs to be touched.

he steps forward, too close, his exhale brushing your shoulder. his fingers graze your skin—soft, warm, real—and you shiver, a small, deliberate tremor. he pulls the zipper up with trembling hands, the metal catching once, his breathing uneven. the distance between you shatters into nothing, the air thick with static.

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he rasps, low in your ear, his voice rough with want.

“doing what?” you whisper, fake innocence thick as honey, your head tilting just enough to catch his eye.

you look back at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted, glossy and pink. he breaks.

“fuck.”

he grabs you, his hands rough on your hips, your mouths crashing together—teeth, tongue, gasps. your lip gloss smears against his cheek, sweet and sticky, and he groans into the kiss, devouring you.

you moan into his mouth, legs wrapping around his hips as he lifts you onto the counter, the edge biting into your thighs. you’re silk and heat and sin beneath his hands, and he’s forgotten everything else—his camera, his code, his shame. only you exist now.

you feel his hard-on through his jeans, pressed against your thighs, and he’s panting, his breath stuttering against your skin as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, the ridge of your spine. his mouth is everywhere, like he’s starved, like he’s trying to memorize you with his tongue.

his glasses slip down, and he grins against your collarbone. “need to get a better look,” he mutters, a flimsy excuse to lean closer, until the fog of his breath warms your skin. he bites your collarbone, hard, groaning when he leaves a mark. “wanna see that in playback.”

he drops to his knees without hesitation, a virgin’s worship, reverence born from years of hentai and nothing else. his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them wide, and he groans like he’s just found salvation. he runs his tongue along the inner part first, slow and teasing, so close to the lace of your panties but not touching what you want.

you try to close your legs, but he forces them open, his grip bruising, his mouth finding the wet spot through the fabric. “fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls, voice muffled, his tongue dragging heavy and slow, the lace rough against your clit. “been wet for me this whole time, huh? fuckin’ tease.”

you whimper, hips bucking, and he moans into you, the vibration making you gasp. he licks through the panties, relentless, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose but he doesn’t care.

“you taste better than i dreamed,” he says, his voice hoarse, hentai dialogue spilling out like it’s natural. he sucks at the fabric, tongue pressing harder, and you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair as you grind against his face. he’s messy, desperate, his moans louder than yours, like he’s the one about to cum. you do, hard, a cry tearing from your throat as you shudder against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop, lapping at the soaked lace like it’s his last meal.

he presses his cheek to your thigh, sticky and glistening, looking up at you with glassy eyes. “first one’s mine,” he says, grinding his hips into the floor, his jeans tight with his own need. you don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. he spreads you open with his fingers, peeling the panties aside, watching your hole twitch with a hunger that makes his mouth water.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice dripping with awe. “fuckin’ perfect.” he slides two fingers in, slow at first, then deeper, curling them just right, like he’s memorized every doujin panel that showed him how. “shit—i’ve seen this in hentai but it’s better. fuck, it’s real.”

his fingers pump, slick and steady, and you’re moaning, head thrown back, the counter digging into your hips. he adds a third, stretching you, his free hand jerking himself through his jeans, matching the pace of his fingers inside you. “so tight, baby. you’re gonna feel so good around my cock.”

he spits on your pussy, a quick, filthy gesture, his eyes locked on yours as it drips down. “they never show that part right in hentai. had to test it myself.” you moan, loud and broken, and he moans louder, his fingers slipping out with a wet squelch. he licks them clean, slow, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring you. “fuck—want it all.”

he stands, trembling, his jeans tented painfully. “can i?” his voice is small, almost pleading, a crack in his bravado. you nod, and he fumbles with his belt, shoving his jeans down just enough. he lines himself up, his cock thick and leaking, the tip brushing your entrance. “you’re so warm—holy shit—you’re squeezing me—fuck—”

he slides in, slow at first, gasping as you take him, your cunt tight and slick around him. he’s a virgin, but he knows this, knows the rhythm from years of jerking off to scenes just like this. he freezes, trying not to cum, his glasses fogging as he pants. you clench down, deliberate, and he slaps your thigh, a quick, sharp sting that earns him a whine.

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

he pulls out, just to slam back in, harder, the counter creaking under you. his rhythm’s sloppy, desperate, but he finds it, each thrust deeper, rougher. “look at you,” he growls, his voice pure filth, hentai dialogue spilling free. “taking my cock like a good little slut. you love this, don’t you? fuckin’ made for me.” he licks the tears running down your cheek, his tongue hot and greedy. “crying already? baby, i’m not even close to done.”

you moan his name, and he loses it, his thrusts turning frantic, messy, like he’s trying to ruin you. “film it. show me what you see,” you gasp, and he fumbles for his phone, almost dropping it with how hard he’s shaking.

the camera app opens in a blur of fingers, then steadies, the lens catching you spread wide beneath him, thighs trembling, pussy stuffed full of his cock. he holds it there, watching the way you flutter around him, his breath ragged. “watch this later and see how ruined you look, baby,” he pants, voice hoarse, wild.

he leans in, still recording, whispering filth against your ear. “that’s right. take it. cry for me. i want you loud.” his other hand drags the mic closer, the sony’s external recorder capturing every slick thrust, every broken sob, every wet squelch, loud and obscene.

he fucks you harder, the counter shaking, your tits bouncing with each thrust. “gonna fuck you on every piece of furniture in here,” he growls, his voice low, unhinged. “that couch? gonna bend you over it. that table? gonna spread you wide. your bed? gonna fill you till you’re screaming.”

you clench around him, and he groans, his hips stuttering. “fuck, you like that? you want me to wreck you everywhere, don’t you?” you nod, gasping, and he slaps your thigh again, harder, leaving a red mark. “say it, baby. tell me you want it.”

“i want it,” you whimper, voice breaking, and he grins, feral, his thrusts turning punishing. you cum again, a shuddering mess, your cry echoing in the mic as your cunt pulses around him, slick dripping down your thighs. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, his cock throbbing as he fucks you through it.

“gonna fill you up,” he pants, his voice cracking, hentai fantasies spilling out. “gonna cum so deep you’ll feel me for days. you want that, don’t you? want my cum dripping out of you?”

you nod, moaning, and he loses it, slamming into you one last time as he cums, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. it’s hot, messy, spilling inside you, and he keeps thrusting, shallow and desperate, like he’s trying to push it deeper.

satoru doesn’t stop.

in fact, he lifts you, his arms wrapping under your thighs like you’re weightless, his cock still buried inside you, slick and pulsing. your head lolls against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, and he groans, low and guttural, as he carries you toward your bedroom.

the air shifts as he crosses the threshold, your perfume hitting him harder here—floral and sugary, the same scent that clings to your pillow, your wrist, your everything. it’s thicker in this room, curling around him like a trap, and he kicks the door shut behind him, the click loud in the quiet.

he pushes you toward the vanity, your back meeting the cool glass of the mirror with a soft thud. he bends you over it, slow and deliberate, his hands guiding your hips until your cheek presses against the surface, your breath fogging the reflection.

“look at you,” he groans, angling his phone to capture the scene—your flushed face, your glossed lips parted, your eyes half-lidded in the mirror as you whine in embarassment.

“pretty little thing, still trying to act innocent.” his voice is rough, edged with hunger, and he shifts his hips, thrusting shallowly, keeping you pinned, reaching for your lip gloss.

you mumble something, a weak protest or plea, but he shuts it up with a swipe of your lip gloss across your mouth, his hand trembling as he paints your lips pink, the applicator slick and messy.

“perfect,” he says, pulling back just enough to admire the shine, the way it catches the light. then he pushes in again, deeper, and you both moan, the sound mingling in the air, caught by the sony’s mic still recording from the tripod in the corner.

he kisses you messily—gloss smearing, lips hungry, teeth clashing as he grinds his hips, slow and torturous, never breaking the rhythm. the camera stays on, the phone propped against a perfume bottle, capturing every gasp, every shudder.

“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters against your mouth, his tongue chasing the sticky sweetness. “gonna kiss you till you’re dripping everywhere.”

satoru lays you on the bed next, gentle but urgent, his hands shaking as he props his phone against a stack of books on your nightstand, the camera app open, framing you perfectly—your body sprawled across the pastel sheets, thighs parted, lingerie barely clinging to your skin, the sheer fabric of your top stretched tight over your chest, the mini skirt hiked up to expose the lace of your panties.

he climbs over you, his glasses slipping down his nose, and pushes your legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, the angle forcing you open, vulnerable.

“fuck, you feel like heaven,” he says, voice cracking, almost reverent, as he slides back inside you, slow and deep, the heat of you pulling a groan from his throat. “i’m never gonna stop, baby.”

each thrust is deliberate, his hips rolling to hit that spot that makes you arch, your nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails he’ll stare at later.

he kisses you through it, his mouth sloppy and desperate, swallowing your moans like they’re his lifeline. the bed creaks under you, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over your tear-streaked face, and he’s lost in it, in the way you clench around him, so tight it’s like you’re made for him.

“so fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “taking my cock like you were born for it.”

he tugs at the straps of your lingerie top, pulling it down until your tits spill free, the sheer fabric catching under them, and he groans, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard until you whimper, your hips bucking against him.

but it doesn’t last—he needs more, needs to see you break in ways he’s only imagined in the dark of his room, his hand on his cock and your videos on loop.

he pulls out, his dick slick and throbbing, and grabs your hips, flipping you with a low grunt. he drags you up by the waist, positioning you on your knees, your ass high, your face pressed into the sheets, the skirt still bunched around your hips. his hand slides up your spine, pushing your chest down, arching you just right, and he yanks the lace panties to the side, not bothering to take them off.

“this is what you get for teasing me all these days,” he growls, his voice unhinged, as he lines himself up and thrusts in, hard and deep, the slap of skin sharp in the quiet room.

you whimper, muffled against the pillow, and he fucks harder, each thrust rocking you forward, the bedframe rattling, your moans spilling free despite the fabric. his phone’s still recording, propped precariously, catching every angle—your arched back, your trembling thighs, the way his cock disappears into you with every brutal snap of his hips.

“look at that pussy,” he says, his free hand gripping your ass, spreading you open for the camera. “so greedy, swallowing me whole. you love this, don’t you?” he tugs your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your cries to echo. “louder, baby. let the whole fuckin’ dorm hear you.”

he slows, just to torment you, his hips grinding deep, making you squirm, your overstimulated body shaking under him. you’re teary, sobs catching in your throat, but he doesn’t care—he wants you loud, wants you broken. he leans down, his chest pressed to your back, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“cry for me,” he whispers, his voice rough, his hand slipping around to pinch your nipple, twisting until you gasp. “wanna hear you fall apart.” he pulls out, leaving you empty, and you whine, a desperate, keening sound that makes him smirk.

“patience, princess,” he mocks, slapping your ass lightly, the sting making you clench around nothing.

satoru guides you up, turning you to face him, and pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you. “wanna see you ride me,” he says, lying back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hips as you straddle him. he tugs the skirt off completely, tossing it aside, leaving you in just the stretched-out lingerie top and soaked panties.

“bounce,” he growls, his eyes locked on where you sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, your cunt stretching around him as you take him inch by inch. “show the camera how you fuck me.”

his phone’s angled to catch it all—your tits bouncing, still half-caught in the sheer fabric, your thighs trembling, the way you gasp every time you drop down, taking him to the hilt.

you move, your hips rolling, your hands braced on his chest, and he’s sweating, his glasses slipping, his breath ragged. he doesn’t let you slow, his hands lifting you, slamming you back down, making you take him deeper. “that’s it,” he says, voice hoarse, his fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises. “fuck yourself on my cock. show me how bad you need it.”

you’re sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you keep going, your moans loud and broken, your body shaking from the overstimulation. he reaches up, ripping the lingerie top off completely, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound, and gropes your tits, squeezing hard, his thumbs brushing your nipples until you shudder.

“these are mine now,” he says, his voice pure filth. “gonna mark ‘em up so you can’t hide.”

he’s close, too close, but he’s not done.

he pushes you off, gentle but firm, and stands, pulling you with him toward the full-length mirror by your closet. he spins you, pressing your chest to the glass, your hands splaying against it, your tear-streaked reflection staring back.

he kicks your legs apart, his cock nudging your entrance, and slides in, slow and deep, his breath hot against your ear. “look at you,” he says, his lips brushing your neck, his hands caging you against the mirror. “look at my cock ruining your pussy.”

he thrusts, slow at first, watching your reflection—your tears, your drool, your gloss-smeared lips, the way your body shakes with every snap of his hips. “you wanted a nerd? this nerd’s gonna fuckin’ break you.”

he fucks you harder, the mirror rattling, your moans bouncing off the walls, loud enough to wake the neighbors. “so fuckin’ pretty,” he pants, one hand slipping to your clit, rubbing messy, relentless circles. “gonna cum all over my cock, aren’t you? gonna make a mess for me?”

you nod, sobbing, your body trembling, and he slaps your ass, the sting sharp, making you clench around him. “say it, baby. tell me you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, voice breaking, tears streaming, and he cums with a raw groan, spilling inside you, hot and thick, his hips stuttering as he rides it out.

he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t stop, his cock still hard, still twitching as he fucks his cum deeper, the slick sound obscene. “not done,” he mutters, his glasses fogged, his voice wrecked. “gonna make you cum again.”

he keeps going, relentless, his thrusts slower but deeper, each one pushing his cum back inside, making you shake. his fingers on your clit are merciless, circling fast, and you’re oversensitive, your body convulsing, your moans turning to desperate cries. “satoru—fuck—too much—” you sob.

he only slaps your thigh, sharp and stinging, and leans in, his lips grazing your ear. “too much? nah, princess, you can take it. wanna feel you squirt for me.”

he angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you’re gone, your body locking up as you cum, a gush of wet heat soaking his cock, dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. he groans, loud and broken, his hips jerking as he cums again, another hot rush filling you, spilling out around him.

“fuck—look at that mess,” he pants, his hand smearing the slick between your legs, rubbing it into your skin. “all for me.”

but he’s not done. he pulls you back to the bed, laying you on your side, one leg hooked over his arm as he slides back in, his cock still hard, slick with your cum and his. “one more,” he begs, his voice cracking, his glasses crooked. “gimme one more, baby. need to feel you again.”

he thrusts slow, deep, his hand slipping between your legs to tease your oversensitive clit, and you’re crying, tears streaming, your body shaking from the intensity. he bites your neck, leaving marks, and whispers, “love it when you cry for me. so fuckin’ loud, just how i like it.”

he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you into the mattress, his hand pressing your face into the sheets. “gonna cum all over you,” he growls, his thrusts turning sloppy, desperate. “gonna fill you up till you’re leaking me for days.”

you cum again, a shuddering, broken mess, your sobs muffled against the pillow, your body convulsing as you squirt again, weaker but still enough to soak the sheets. he cums with you, a third time, his groan hoarse, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, the mess dripping out, pooling under you.

“fuck—baby—” he gasps, his voice wrecked, his body shaking as he collapses against you, his glasses falling off completely, clattering to the floor.

“mine now,” he whispers, hoarse and ruined, his forehead pressed to your back, his breath hot and uneven. “you’re mine now.”

you nod, too spent to speak, your body limp, your reflection in the mirror a blur of tears and gloss and him, the phone still recording every ragged breath, every whispered “fuck” as he pulls you closer, not letting go.

but then silence swells, heavy and slow, filling the room like a fog. the air’s thick with the aftermath—sweat, cum, and the lingering sweetness of your perfume, still clinging to the sheets, to him.

satoru’s hands tremble where they hold you, one slipping down to fumble with his phone, stopping the recording with a clumsy tap, the other pressing flat against your stomach, grounding him, grounding you. your breaths are too loud, ragged and uneven, syncing in the quiet like a metronome.

he leans away slightly, just enough to grab a towel from the edge of your bed, awkward in the afterglow like he just realized he desecrated a temple. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the mess of sheets, and his hair’s a disaster, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat.

“shit,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper, too quiet for the boy who was growling filth ten minutes ago. “did i—i mean. that wasn’t too much, right?” there’s a crack in his tone, a flicker of panic, like he’s replaying every thrust, every slap, every sobbed moan he pulled from you.

you don’t answer at first, too dazed, too wrung out, your body still humming from the overstimulation, your thighs sticky and trembling.

your silence makes him spiral.

“fuck, i knew it. i pushed too hard. i got carried away—i was recording—fuck—i didn’t even ask—” his words tumble out, frantic, his hand raking through his hair as he sits up, eyes wide, searching your face for any sign of regret.

you turn to face him, slow and sore, your cheek pillowed against your arm, the motion making your body ache in the best way. your eyes are still wet, lashes clumped with tears, lips kiss-bruised and sticky with half-worn gloss, swollen from his teeth. you stare at him—this boy, this dork, with his mussed-up hair and the panicked look of someone who just lived out a lifelong fantasy and now doesn’t know what to do with it.

“i’m okay,” you say, your voice shredded, raw from screaming his name. “jesus, i’m so okay.”

he exhales, a shaky rush of air, like he’s been holding it in for hours. he collapses back against you, burying his face in your neck, his lips brushing the bite mark he left earlier. “fuck, you scared me,” he mumbles, his voice muffled, warm against your skin. then, quieter, almost unhinged: “we just speedran my entire hentai folder.”

you laugh, a weak, breathy sound that bubbles up despite the ache in your ribs. “i know.”

“i didn’t even know i could,” he says, his voice small, like he’s confessing a sin. “i haven’t even done that in vr.”

you snort, the sound catching in your throat. “nerd.”

he groans, but it’s not annoyed—it’s mortified, the kind of sound that comes from knowing he’s exposed himself completely. “i’m never gonna recover from this. i glossed you like a fuckin’ bratz doll. i glossed you.” his hand gestures vaguely at your lips, still shiny and smeared, and you laugh again, the sound softer now, your body too tired for anything more.

you roll over fully, tugging him down into the blankets with you, the pastel sheets tangling around your legs. he follows like a kicked puppy, his head resting on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. you can feel his heart still racing, his body still trembling from the high.

“i just,” you mumble, your voice barely audible, “wanted you to notice me. back during the group project, you never looked at me. just your laptop. even when i wore that stupid short skirt.”

he goes silent, his fingers pausing where they’re tracing lazy circles on your hip. then, in a voice so small it barely carries: “…you wore that for me?”

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

he lets out the tiniest, most violated gasp, like you’ve just rewritten his entire reality. “i thought you were just one of those girls who always looked hot. like, default setting.” his voice cracks on the last word, and you can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips.

“no,” you say, your tone playful despite the exhaustion. “i was trying to seduce the dumbass with the mecha desktop background.”

he muffles a sob into your chest, half-laugh, half-groan, his arms tightening around you. “i love mecha…” he says, like it’s the most tragic thing in the world, and you hum, stroking his hair, your fingers catching in the sweaty strands.

“i know.”

a long pause settles over you, the kind that feels like it could stretch forever. the fairy lights twinkle softly, casting shadows across the room, and your perfume lingers, mixing with the musk of sex. his breathing slows, but he doesn’t let go, his body still pressed to yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

then he lifts his head, his eyes serious, stripped of the wild edge they had before. “can i… hold you properly? not like—y’know—breeding press. like, real holding.” his cheeks flush, like he’s embarrassed to admit he wants something soft after all that.

“you already folded me in half like a love letter,” you whisper, but you shift into his arms anyway, letting him pull you close. he wraps around you, tight, needy, his hands trembling like he’s still processing you’re real, not just pixels on a screen. his hold is desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, every curve, every soft inch, in case this never happens again.

“don’t make fun of me,” he says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “i think my crush on you just speedran into obsession.” there’s a rawness to it, a confession that feels too big for the quiet, but it lands soft, like he’s finally letting it out.

“you’re the one who begged for one more while crying into my shoulder,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“stop,” he groans, burying his face deeper, his arms tightening like he could squeeze the embarrassment out of himself. “i’m gonna die.”

you press a kiss to his forehead, slow and deliberate, your lips lingering on his sweaty skin. “you’re not gonna die,” you say, your tone soft but firm. “you’re gonna eat me out on friday and wear your glasses while you do it.”

he whimpers, a pathetic, needy sound, his hips twitching involuntarily against your thigh. “say less,” he mumbles, his voice wrecked, but there’s a spark in it, like you’ve just lit something in him again. you giggle, wrapping your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, your skin sticking to his in the humid air.

and in the quiet, as you’re both drifting off—sore, sticky, still catching your breath—he says it again. not ruined this time, not even possessive. just low. certain. like he’s already planning his next sin.

“mine.”

you don’t answer. just smile into the pillow, heart pounding. because maybe you are. and maybe you’ll let him prove it again.

especially once he finds out what cosplay you ordered last week.

friday’s going to be filthy.

[camilofebrero]

YouTube Hair Vlog Script

[Opening Scene] Hi everyone! Welcome back to my channel! Today, I’ve got a little story time for you and a quick hack I just stumbled upon that might save you some frustration—and some money!

[Show the Tresemme heat protectant bottle on the counter] So, here’s the deal. I was using this Tresemme 8oz Heat Protectant Spray, but the spray mechanism started leaking everywhere. Like, every time I sprayed, half the product would end up on the floor. Not cool, right?

[Hold the continuous spray bottle] Instead of throwing away the entire thing, I poured the heat protectant into this continuous spray bottle I got from Walmart a while back. Game changer! Not only is it easier to use, but I’m also not wasting product anymore. Honestly, why didn’t I think of this sooner?

[Voiceover or clip of Tea Rene’s channel; hold the shampoo bottle] Speaking of Tresemme, I saw Tea Rene mention that their shampoo might be cheap, but it’s damaging. And honestly, I’m kind of taking that as a verdict on the whole brand at this point.

[Back to you in front of the camera] So, I’ll finish up what I have left—it’s not in my nature to waste—but I’m officially on the hunt for something better. If you have any recommendations for heat protectants or shampoos that are affordable and actually good for your hair, drop them in the comments below. Help a girl out!

[Closing Scene] Alright, that’s my quick hack and mini rant for the day. Don’t forget to like, subscribe, and share if you found this helpful. Until next time, take care of your hair and keep slaying! Bye!

[podcastgemist]

#266- JACK&JOZEF - Meer structuur?

Met begin, midden en afsluiting?

[salemlunaa]

☀︎ YOU’RE NOT BEING PRODUCTIVE, YOU’RE LAZY AND AFRAID ☀︎

And this will cost you a lot of time that could be spent with your desires…

You have all the information, why aren’t you applying. You tell me you have been in this community for 6 months, a year, 2 years+, but how many of those days you’ve spent in this community have you actually applied, how many of those nights did you actually apply and don’t just fall asleep after 5 seconds.

And i know why you’re lazy, it’s because you’re scared, you’re scared of inducing process, whether it be success or failure. You make yourself busy with scripts and subliminals, “i’ll script this really cool thing first”, “i’ll scroll a little on tumblr first” “lemme just look at the success story hashtag before i do it, it really motivates me” You try and distract your self, you delude yourself into thinking you’re being productive but really you don’t want to, if you wanted to you wouldn’t be here and I will ALWAYS stand by that. You put it off until the last minute and then when it “doesn’t work” you run back to tumblr acting like you actually did anything.

a really good analogy from @archsariel333 - “you buy the pens, the notebook, you plan for the book you’re going to write but, you never write it”

“let me just add this one thing to the plan”, “let me look at inspo for book covers and art styles for illustration”, “let me go to my book writers group on tumblr and see if they have anymore advice for me even tho i know how to write a fucking book”

I know it’s comforting and validating to be in the “waiting period”, the period of anticipation. You want to go shopping for a vacation, pack your suitcase, look at reviews on social media, plan the pics you’re going to take, but getting on the actual plane can be scary, you ask yourself “what if they deny my boarding pass”, “what if i fail to make it on time”, “what if im not eligible to fly for whatever reason”, you don’t want to leave your comforting circumstances and even the trip itself scares you just a little, so you cope by buying all the vacation outfits in the world, saving inspo pics into a pinterest board, looking at vlogs of other people going to that place. You can’t bring yourself to get on the fucking plane.

You need to apply, and properly, 2024 is almost over, the amount of weeks we have left isn’t even in the double digits anymore, I don’t want you to make it to the end of this DECADE still keeping the tumblr “foryou” page company, watching people coming and going feeling paralysed as people who came here later than you pass you by. I know the feeling sucks but whose fault is that?

I want you to scrap the amount you’ve been here. Since you’re the operant power right? I don’t care how many weeks, months, years you’ve been here, scrap it, you’re going to start afresh and you’re going to actually apply, when you have the time, you’re not going to go back to your notes app, notion or pinterest to script some more, you’re going to apply.

A lot of you have the knowledge that majority of the world doesn’t and time on your hands, do you know how powerful and extremely fortunate you are, to have time AND knowledge? i don’t think alot of you understand how much of a privilege that is you are unstoppable yet you stop yourself out of fear that you will “fail” to tap into the void and let yourself down. You are so privileged to know what you know and to have the time to apply it, so do it, your not gonna scroll on tiktok for a few more minutes or shove a million subliminals down your throat to “prep yourself” you’re just going to take a breath and do it. Induce pure consciousness, and if you fall asleep scrap that assumption and do it again.

Look at your life right now, do you honestly like it, do you like envying others for having what you can have at the snap of your fingers. Do you like the life you are living?

I want you to tell yourself that you will not be the reason for your own demise. you will NOT be the reason that it’s 2026,27,28 and so on and you don’t have what you want.

please just go and apply, i don’t even know you guys and it hurts watching you kill time when you could’ve had everything a day ago, an hour ago heck even 5 minutes ago.

apply apply apply, don’t let this feeling be the reason you “fail” 💋🍑

[deminetly]

࣪ ∔݃ HOW TO SPICE UP A BORING DR

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

mysterious disappeances start happening

new people moving into your neighbourhood

finding a magical portal/item

finding a treasure map

start trainhopping

script in a secret admirer

script in concerts and festivals

script in a secret hangout

script in a secret tunnel system

script in a forest that nobody enters because legend says its haunted

go on a road trip

start a prank war with your friends

adopt a pet

script in a forbidden love story or love triangle

start a vlog channel or blog

script in a penpal

get involved in a cult

script in a train with no destination, it just drives through beautiful places

run away

script in that everyone tells you their secrets

[hamiltonaf]

Current Boyfriend | Lando Norris

Pairing: Lando Norris x Female Reader

Word Count: 921

Warnings: None just fluff

A/N: Hiii lovelies ! I’m back from my 6 month hiatus. Saw this trend on TikTok and thought about writing it, apologies if my writing is shabby.. its been a hot minute. Hoping to get back into writing again soon. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy .xx

My week is never complete if I didn’t complete my set goals and more especially, if I didn’t prank Lando. Another week, another trend on TikTok of girlfriends pranking their boyfriends. Lando may act annoyed for a few minutes after cracking he’s been pranked, but I know deep down he enjoys it because we can laugh about it later how he fell for it.

The prank today seems simple, but I know I won’t be able to keep it up for long because Lando will end it the second I start. He was in a good mood after the Miami GP, so whilst he’s on a high, this is the best time to do it.

I ‘soft launched’ the prank when he was on the simulator and I was sat beside him to keep him company. I messaged (Y/F/N) to give me a call and to go ahead with whatever I was saying. “Heyy girly” I answered. “Hey bestie ! What are you up to ?” (Y/F/N) asked. I stood up to pace the room, “Well, you know that I’m staying with my current boyfriend in Monaco. We’re having a chilled day, about to make some lunch. How about you ?” I asked. I noticed Lando’s facial expression change the second I said current boyfriend. He repeated it to himself but didn’t question me about it as I left the room to not disturb him.

After the call ended he joined me in the kitchen to feature in my ‘A day in my life’ vlog. Little does he know that this is not even going to be posted anywhere and I’m creating fake content that’s about to trigger him again.

I set up my phone and started recording. “Hi guys ! It’s (Y/N) and welcome to a day in my life. The day started off with my current boyfriend on the sim and-“ he cut me off. “Wait, what did you say ? Current boyfriend ?” He asked as he stepped into frame. “Yeah, anyway, now we’re about to have lunch. Joining me today is my current boyfriend, Lando” I smiled as I motioned to him. He bit his lip and lightly laughed to himself. “How many other boyfriends do you have ?” He asked as he stared at me.

“Obviously it’s just you. I’m trying to explain it to them so that’s why you’re my current boyfriend” I gaslit him. “Okay” he said plainly. “So my girlfriend at the moment is going to be my sous-chef today” he faked a smile. Oh so he wants to play.

I couldn’t give him a reaction so I just pressed my lips together before taking over. “Anyway, so we’re making an aglio olio pasta today. Whilst we wait for our spaghetti to cook, my current boyfriend will be answering some questions” I side eyed him. “How many more times do you have to refer to me as your current boyfriend. I think they get it” Someone is upset. “Oh I’m done” I said casually. He sighed in relief. “Okay so first question is what does my current boyfriend get up to on a weekend off” I stifled a laugh. He leaned towards the counter whilst keeping eye contact.

“What ?” I half laughed. “Say that one more time” he dared. “Why ? What are you gonna do ?” I asked as I stepped closer. “I’ll get a new girlfriend tomorrow” he smirked. “Oh is that how it is now. You can’t handle a prank so you threaten to get a new girlfriend” I raised a brow. I couldn’t contain myself, his reaction was not part of the script. “I can’t handle a prank ? More like you can’t..who’s the one smiling” he grinned. I rolled my eyes and distracted myself by straining the spaghetti. “I think you fail to realise our for you page is almost the same. Babe, you think I wouldn’t see that prank ?” He followed behind me. “Aww is someone upset” he cooed as he snaked his arms around my waist.

I tried to keep up the bit, but his arms wrapping around my waist made my heart do that annoying little flip it always does when he’s close. I could feel him smiling against my shoulder. “You know I’m your only boyfriend, right?” he said softly, his voice lower now — no longer playing for the camera.

I turned around to face him, arms still around each other. “Of course. You think I’d put this much effort into pranking just anyone?” I teased.

He laughed gently, but then his expression softened. “You could call me your past, current, and future boyfriend, and I’d still be the luckiest guy alive.” That caught me off guard. I blinked up at him, smile fading into something realer — warmer. “That’s... kinda smooth,” I said quietly.

He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and gave that soft grin that always makes everything else disappear. “I’m serious. You make life fun. Even when you’re annoying me on purpose.”

“I annoy you out of love,” I whispered with a grin.

“And I love every second of it,” he whispered back, then kissed me — slow and sweet, like we weren’t in the middle of a half-cooked pasta vlog.

I pulled back just enough to look at him. “So… you’re not actually getting a new girlfriend tomorrow?” I asked, playing with his shirt collar.

He smirked. “Nah. I’m too busy being hopelessly in love with this one.” And just like that, the prank was over — and my heart was absolutely, undeniably full.

[realprissygirl]

a few things i’ve been obsessed with lately

1. body glitter. literally i can’t leave the house lately without making sure my chest, legs and hands shimmer. my fav choice will be my in the stars and into the night glowtions along with my diamond shimmer mists from b&bw. also love that new shimmer pure seduction shimmer body mist from vs.

2. mixed metals. stacking my sterling silver and gold charm bracelets and layering different colored necklaces feels so luxurious to me.

3. champagne gold. refer back to #2. i have a skin tone that looks good with gold and sterling silver. so when recently shopping and trying on tops i fell in love with the shade “gilver”.

4. black satin. buying new sheets and i bought some new black satin pillow cases to compliment my bedroom scheme and it’s such a classy and minimal touch.

5. hyper feminine music videos by black artists. been loving watching mariah carey and toni braxton videos. not to mention lyssithadoll’s check on it by beyonce costume #devoured

6. girly youtube. been binging youtube lately. not just for fun but for inspo. i have a list posted of my fav youtube girlies. been loving maintenance day vlogs and can’t wait to record some.

7. scripting. affirming and listening to subs while writing out my manifestations has been so fun and i’m an actual master manifestor sooo

8. my natural curly hair. sometimes i don’t feel like doing my hair to run out and check off errands. my hair has been in such a beautiful healthy state i literally don’t need any styling products, conditioner, nothing. just edge control and water and i’m out the door.

9. stylist videos. been watching a lot of hair stylists do hair on youtube (about to get a vixen sew in) the art of cosmetology is so prissy and will always be a worthwhile career choice.

10. gratitude and thought reframing. in the past i spent a lot of time complaining and being sad about everything that wasn’t going right for me when i’m literally so fucking blessed. like i have so much to be happy for. also affirming negative thoughts does nothing but make them more valid. i’m glad ive stopped

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

Bookish girlfriend you're my yum yum - Mark Webber x reader

Summary : After going viral on book social media, you give the fans a completely new side of you. It catches the eye of an author (who happens to be a 9 GP winner)

inkscentedglamour: Squeezing in some last girly romance books before I film a new video for you 👀

username: Our queen is finally trying romantasy, I can feel it.

username: I need another object x human romance. I know it was an April Fools thing, but I need her to read Double Stuffed

username: DARK ROMANCE. DARK ROMANCE. DARK ROMANCE.

username : I know the sports romance PR is talking to her like the Green Goblin Mask

> username : Especially the new book with the MMC inspired by Danny Ricciardo

> username: need to rewatch her F1 romance streams on patreon.

username: Do you think this is after Two Girls One Formula podcast backlash?

> username: The girls brought her on to talk about books, specifically romances. I don't understand why the fans were attacking her for not talking much about the current grid and things like that and focusing on the fiction.

> username: Especially when she has said many times that she's easing into the fandom. How would you feel if people bullied you for starting with edits/ fanfics and books, like she's doing?

inkscentedglamour: Writing my script for the upcoming video and staring at what got me here

username: Throttled slander era, you will forever be famous

> username: The way she started off so hesitant to give it a bad review or DNF it. This was her first 1 star. People died.

> username: Asking people to still try it for themselves and to not just judge it based on her review. Cemented her as my favorite BookTuber, I fear.

username: The fact that she still followed through and read the entire series. And rearranged her entire Goodreads ratings after that? Iconic

> username: I miss her giving 5 stars. But the quote "if I can be cruel enough to give 1 star, then I don't think I should be generous to give 5 stars to any book, but one" will forever live on.

inkscentedglamour: New video, out now

username: MARK WEBBER????? OVER EMILY HENRY????

> username: over Christina Lauren?????? Ali Hazelwood? Katee Robert

username: you're telling me an Australian driver who retired like 10 years ago is her favorite author??? And was the driving force for her to get her to watch a GP?

username: she's the queen of Booktok, has talked about every book boyfriend, and now she's into cars that go fast?

aussiegrit: Talked about Porsche, F1, Mentoring Oscar, and my book, somehow. Why is Aussie Grit trending?

username: Oh no, our little Booktuber girl bossed too close to the sun (she has a million subscribers and multiple brand deals)

> username: she got it to 5 stars on Goodreads and onto the trending page on Amazon.

username: Mark, wear the My fake boyfriend drives for F1 mech, and my life is yours

username: @inkscentedglamour, look who sorta knows you exist.

inkscentedglamour: Oh oh

inkscentedglamour: Reading the book 😄🤩🥺 vs. having to describe its impact on you, your career, and the future 🙃😑☠️. If you see me verbally abusing a Google doc at the airport, no you didn't

username: Mark Webber in the likes?????????

> username: I guess he found out why Aussie Grit was trending

username: reading video hiatus is over, society is healing

> username: we haven't gotten a part two of her trip to a random destination yet

> username: true, she just packed and left us on a cliffhanger. Surely we're getting that first

> username: her caption says it all. For book lovers, some of you have no reading comprehension.

inkscentedglamour: I finished reading my book, so it only makes sense to hit the thrift, right? Reading vlog will be up when I'm back home (I was strictly told to relax)

username: the two glasses (which could mean nothing)

> username : this is the girl that relies on our discord pins to drink water, what is going on in the house of commons

username : Mark Webber, here again????????? Before me?????????????

> username: she sped through her book cause she has his new book on pre-order

> username: I just know she'll get it on Kindle too, no way is she waiting til it ships to her house

username: Mark's pr team was sleeping because wdym they didn't reach out to her

> username: And apparently, he's got a launch party coming up with "surprise BookTube influencer" attending

inkscentedglamour : Photographic proof that my favorite author knows I exist. Thank you, @aussiegrit, for the invite. And thanks for getting a decent picture before I cried at the blurb and dedication

aussiegrit: Figured you'd wanna skip the queue at Waterstones. Can't wait for your review of this one (also please re-read the new prologue before posting)

username: Mark has been secretly divorced for a year and was writing this whole book as a therapy exercise??????

> username: he couldn't tell anybody and felt like he was slowly fading into obscurity, which affected his mental health

> username: he was not thinking of releasing this until the OG Aussie Grit review

> username: Mark saying that the YouTube video changed his life, just as much as it did hers

inkscentedglamour: Night and day

Comments on this post have been disabled

14.02.2025,approximately 3 months after the book launch

inkscentedglamour: Valentine's Day, Book Buying Day, and Merch Drop Day. Shop the My Real Boyfriend Drove for F1 tee. And yes, he signed off on this specific hard launch

inkscentedglamour: time to be sappy real quick after the merch plug. Mark has been inspiring me, guiding me and showering me with praise ever since his second book launch. I'm so happy he's in my life and I intend to keep him there for as long as I can. He beats all the bookish boyfriend one can have (yes, even Zafir)

aussiegrit: I'm so glad to have you in my life. You see me and be with me, sharp tongue,flaws and all. I wanna build you bookshelves and watch you put my books on them last. Now stop being a YouTuber for a second and get back to being my girlfriend.

[callmeagardengnome]

✗ blood in the clouds ✗ | DELETED SCENES | original fic

HOUR 5.5 OF 7 - YOUTUBE VLOGGING

your fingers crumpled the edges of the ‘script’ that hongjoong gave you, the gun ahead of you acting as an unwelcome reminder that you could die at any moment.

you squinted at the paper, your voice cracking slightly as you read aloud. 

“‘dad, you are to provide the $150 million you owe to K.H.J., through your next meeting with mr kim. refusal means that your daughter will be cut up and scattered across the s-’”

your eyes widened. “are you serious?” 

 he lowered the camera he had been aiming at you. “..you want to find out, pretty?”

HOUR 15 OF 7 - DRESS TO IMPRESS

“are you always this picky?” wooyoung sneered as he leaned against the wall. 

you glared at him. “yes.”

the room you were brought to was slightly cleaner and brighter than what you’ve seen so far. on the bed, there were dresses stacked on top of each other, some ridiculous and some stunning. 

“why do you even have these dresses?” you asked as you held one up. 

“we don’t,” wooyoung rolled his eyes. “boss made me steal them for you.”

you dropped the dress and shot him a look. “are you serious?”

“why would we have these lying around?” he scoffed. 

you sighed, picking up a dress. something that was simple and elegant. “i’ll wear this one.”

when you realised that wooyoung ignored you, you spoke up again. “get out.”

he rolled his eyes and left the room with a dramatic huff. once he left, you put the dress on. it wasn’t the most flattering dress you’ve worn, but at least it wasn’t that horrid uniform you’ve been wearing. 

when you were done, you opened the door to see wooyoung waiting - holding a bag of what looked like makeup supplies. you sat on the bed as he loomed through them, picking out something. 

“what the hell is this?” he muttered as he held what looked like a pencil. 

you blinked. “…it’s eyeliner.”

“shit,” he grumbled as his hand wobbled and drew a squiggly line across your cheek. 

you flinched. “what the hell are you doing? i can do it myself-“

“-i’ve done this before!” wooyoung argued as he continued to draw crooked lines near your eyes. 

“is she done yet?” a new voice cut in. you turned to see a man at the doorway. “why is she not ready?”

“seonghwa, take over,” wooyoung snapped as he shoved the pencil into seonghwa’s hands. “i’m getting pissed off.”

seonghwa sighed and stepped forward to where you were sitting. his movements were calm and precise as he wiped off the makeup and reapplied it. 

once he was done, he stepped back with a nod. “you look good.”

you blinked, unsure of whether to thank him. “uh- do you guys have mirrors here?”

both men exchanged a glance before seonghwa shrugged. “no, but just take our word for it.”

before anyone else could say anything, the door swung open. 

it was hongjoong. 

his eyes swept over you slowly and his lips curled into a smirk that made your stomach twist. “let’s go pig hunting.”

HOUR 16 OF 7 - FAST AND FURIOUS

the car swerved violently, tires screeching as hongjoong gripped the steering wheel. the tunnel around you was noisy with gunshots and bullets bouncing off the walls. 

you were in the passenger seat, wearing a black dress as you held the car door for dear life. 

“i thought we were going to an event!” you yelled over the gunshots as the car jerked to the side. 

“i thought so too,” hongjoong sighed as he tilted the rearview mirror. 

before you could say anything, he reached into his blazer and pulled out a sleek black pistol.

“what are you doing?” your jaw dropped. 

he rolled his eyes. “don’t act surprised.” 

“what is wrong with you?!” you spat out, watching him check the bullets. “i’m not letting you kill anyone-“

“god- you’re such a brat,” he clicked his tongue, cocking the gun. “take the wheel.”

you’re eyes widened. “what?!”

“take. the. wheel,” he ordered, already unbuckling his seatbelt. 

hongjoong rolled down the window, letting go of the steering wheel entirely and ramming the gas pedal as he stood up. panicked, you lunged for the wheel, struggling to grip it as the car swerved dangerously to the side. “are you crazy?!”

“drive!” he yelled, raising the gun and firing several shots at the black SUV trailing close behind. 

“shit,” he muttered, ducking back inside to reload his gun. he leaned back out again. “turn right-”

you quickly listened to him as he aimed carefully, firing several more rounds. a loud bang echoed as the SUV’s tires blew out, the vehicle swerving violently before crashing into the tunnel’s wall. 

hongjoong slid back into the seat, taking the steering wheel from you as he rolled up the window. “you’re welcome.”

MONTH 3 - LET’S GO GAMBLING! (initial draft)

“get ready!” san yelled, his voice cutting through the noise.

weapons were drawn and the room erupted into chaos.

you rushed forward, gripping the knife wooyoung lent you earlier. your pulse pounded in your ears as you scanned the room, overwhelmed.

“stay back, brat. you’re not ready.”

hongjoong’s voice was sharp, his hand grabbing your arm as he pushed you to the side. his eyes bore into yours, leaving no room for argument.

you hesitated. the rest of the group either fought piglets near slot machines, roulette tables or bars, their moves deadly.

you tried to follow hongjoong’s order, really. but when you saw one of the piglets break away from the main fight and headed for yeosang, who was hiding under a pool table, you couldn’t resist.

your grip on the knife tightened as you ran forward.

the piglet turned to you, snarling. “you think you can take me, girl?”

without thinking, you lunged.

the clash of steel pierced your ears as your knives collided. you were definitely not a good fighter - your strikes were clumsy and your footing was off, but you were high on adrenaline.

his blows were relentless, forcing you to backpedal. his knife caught yours at an odd angle, causing the blade to deform.

panic surged through you as he moved to strike again, but before he could reach you-

-the piglet dropped to the ground.

you looked behind to see hongjoong standing not too far away, his pistol still aimed at where the piglet was.

his eyes inspected you, narrowing as he assessed your state. blood dripped from a small gash on your lip, and your sleeves were torn - revealing small cuts on your arms.

he sighed. “go hide with yeosang,” he ordered before quickly turning to rejoin the fight.

you staggered toward the pool tables, slumping next to yeosang.

“you’re not fighting?” you panted, wiping your lip.

he shook his head. “too tired.”

you nodded, leaning back against the table’s leg as you impatiently waited for the fight to end, which didn’t take too long.

the gunfire finally ceased, the room falling quiet.

one by one, the group gathered in the corner, collapsing onto the floor in a circle as you and yeosang joined them. bottles of water were passed around as everyone caught their breaths.

for a while, no one spoke, the only sounds being an occasional groan.

“hey,” wooyoung hiccuped, breaking the silence as he turned to you. “give me my knife back.”

you looked at him awkwardly before handing him his completely deformed blade.

“what the hell!” he exclaimed. “that was one of my favourites!”

you shrugged. “you shouldn’t have given it to me then.”

“how was i supposed to know you’d get into an actual fight?” wooyoung complained. “now i don’t feel bad for your busted lip anymore.”

“you’re such a dick,” you rolled your eyes.

wooyoung grinned, leaning closer - his voice mocking sweet. “aw, don’t be mad, sweetheart. i’ll get you a better knife- one that won’t break in your delicate fucking hands.”

“ohmygod- shut up,” you groaned, shoving him lightly as the others chuckled.

hongjoong leaned against the wall, his arm crossed over his chest. his eyes shifted from wooyoung to you. 

he told himself it was relief - that he was glad you were bonding with the crew, that you were starting to feel like one of them. that’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? to see you mesh with his team, to become a member?

but why did his stomach twist every time one of them smiled at you?

he didn’t realise how hard his fingers were digging into his arms until his knuckles turned sore and white.

“enough,” hongjoong cut through the conversation.

the laughter died down instantly as everyone turned to him.

“we don’t have time for this,” he continued, standing up. “grab any cash you find and meet by the van. now.”

the group complained but obeyed, sluggishly rising to their feet.

you went to pick up a discarded water bottle, hongjoong’s eyes lingering a fraction too long on the bloodied edge of your sleeve and the small cut on your lip.

he should be angry at you for disobeying him, for throwing yourself into danger when you weren’t ready. but all he could feel was the sickening churn of jealousy at how easily you laughed with the others.

as you passed by him on your way out, he caught your wrist briefly.

“next time, stay where i tell you,” he said. “now you’re hurt.”

you nodded, hesitating before you spoke, your voice soft. “...i’m sorry.”

hongjoong blinked, taken aback.

“i-” your brows furrowed. “i didn’t mean to get hurt. i just wanted to help..”

fuck- why, no- how were you so genuine?

he expected you to talk back or shrug him off, not this - sincerity shining in your eyes. now, he just looked like a shithead, guilt clawing at his chest.

hongjoong exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “whatever- it wasn’t your fault-”

you tilted your head, confused. “but you-”

“just find the cash we need,” he cut you off, walking away.

hongjoong felt his stomach twist once more. he told himself it was just concern or worry. but deep down, he knew it was something more complicated.

and he hated it.

other fics | masterlist

[bell-swamp-fitzjames]

sorry to those who've seen it before but the spores continue to get added to youtube. What sort of audience will i cultivate when i drop my good omens sequel video. not sorry enough tho to not reblog this from my silly youtube sideblog lol

New video alert! Sort of, it's a terror edit previously only found home here

[saerotonins]

actor!satoru headcanons

ft. gojo satoru x reader

content warnings: fluff, slightly suggestive, implied gojo satoru x reader

wc: 573

jjk actor au masterlist

as an actor:

when he became a rising actor, many people found out that his parents' names were also big in the acting industry 

people immediately assumed that he's just a nepo baby with no talent and only got to where he is due to his parents' wealth and fame

but boy did he prove them WRONG

he's actually so good at his craft that his acting captivated many people

people are also shocked that he studied and actually has a bachelor's degree in fine arts

so yeah, this man is EDUCATED 

a fun fact that many didn't believe is that he wasn't actually even supposed to be an actor and only wanted to help produce and even create his own films

but when he helped producing a film, the director thought he would be a good eye candy on screen and encouraged him to try acting

he first landed some minor roles until more and more people paid attention to him, which helped him unleash his full potential as an actor

if you think he's goofy and silly in jjk, you best believe he is even MORE silly and goofy irl 😭

but he's literally the sunshine of the set so his goofiness really helps in easing the stress of his co-stars and the filming crew

if nanami's the one bringing drinks to the set, he's the one who brings TOO MANY sweets, specifically mochis

it's also ones that are really expensive too like 

doesn't drink coffee because he hates the bitter taste of it, maybe he'll drink one if it's sweet enough (aka doesn't taste like coffee at all), so nanami only buys him fruit teas and frappes LOL

he's also a detail-oriented man so his acting is really GOD TIER and is really keen on nailing every subtle detail whenever he is on screen

definitely very active on ig LOL acts like it's a dump account and is very interactive with his fans in the comment section

his ig composed of various selfies, photo dumps, promotions, his s/o, and definitely a lot of foods

i'd like to think that he also has his youtube channel as well

he posts vlogs and some behind the scenes when he's shooting a drama or magazine shoots 

tries, keyword: tries, not to show spoilers

pls save the directors from him for almost having heart attacks

as a boyfriend:

he really likes to tease you by making you help him practice his lines that needs him to use his hottest voice like bae, FOCUS 

he also practices the fight scenes with you btw 

but he's REALLY annoying about it please

remember that jogo scene? no, the one in shibuya

yeah, he made you feel his entire length like WOAH THERE DUDE? that ain't on the script for sure 😭

also comes home really late but makes up by cuddling you extra longer in the mornings

borrows your lip glosses and takes them to the set because he refuses to buy one and that "it makes your bond as a couple grow stronger" istg

now you know why his lips always look like that on screen LOL

puts them on right before going to the shoot so he can kiss you good with his glossy lips

[blissfulflw]

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𝑈𝑛f𝑖𝑙𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝐹𝑢𝑛

Pairing- Kim Chaewon x fem reader

Genre- Fluff

Word count- 3056

A/N: I Lowk love this fic so I’m gonna make a few spin offs like in practices afterwards, in the dorms that type of stuff.

Part 2

Practices - Dorms - Interviews - Awards - Prank

The camera was already rolling, red light blinking softly from its perch on the tripod. Sakura laughed brightly somewhere off to the side, her energy infectious as always. Eunchae’s voice rose above the chatter, teasing Yunjin with something that made the older girl fake a dramatic gasp.

Chaewon sat in her usual place on the studio couch, posture relaxed, smile easy. She’d done this a thousand times. The group’s YouTube content was second nature by now—games, challenges, behind-the-scenes vlogs. It was meant to show the world how close they were. How happy. How effortlessly they clicked.

Her eyes drifted, like they always did, toward the edge of the set.

You stood there, arms crossed, expression unreadable beneath the soft studio lights. Designer hoodie, designer sneakers, eyes like glass. Quiet. Polished. Untouchable. You weren’t doing anything wrong—but that was what made it worse. You never did anything wrong. Never loud, never rude, never out of place. Just… cold. Always cold.

Chaewon didn’t know when the irritation had started. Maybe the first week of training, when you barely spoke unless someone asked you something directly. Maybe the first time she saw you smile like it was scripted. Whatever it was, it grated on her nerves.

“You ready?” the manager asked.

You nodded, eyes flickering toward the camera, then to the group. You didn’t smile. Not yet.

When the intro music played, it was like flipping a switch.

You stepped forward, voice a little higher, smile just right, posture loose enough to pass as “relatable.” You weren’t fake exactly—just performing. And Chaewon hated how good you were at it.

“Hi everyone, welcome back to our channel!” Eunchae beamed. “Today, we’re playing ‘Guess the Member’ with childhood photos!”

As the group clapped and cheered, Chaewon caught the briefest glimpse of you glancing toward the door, like you’d rather be anywhere else.

God, she’s insufferable, Chaewon thought. Why even debut in a group if you’re going to act like you don’t want to be here?

“Y/N,” Sakura chirped, “you okay?”

You blinked, as if you hadn’t realized anyone was speaking to you. Then the smile returned. “Yeah. Just zoned out.”

Chaewon didn’t believe it for a second.

Sakura flipped through the pile of childhood photos with her usual energy, letting the group take turns guessing who was who. Laughter filled the room as the members debated the most embarrassing, cringey photos from each other’s pasts. Eunchae was always quick to make wild guesses, while Yunjin was far too smug when she knew something no one else did.

But when the next photo appeared on the screen, the entire room fell silent.

It was a picture of a young you—around ten or eleven, maybe. You were curled up in a massive, plush bed, the kind that seemed designed more for a luxury hotel than a home. The headboard, gilded and decorated with intricate carvings, was almost as high as your body. Your legs were tucked beneath a thick comforter, headphones perched over your head, and you were so absorbed in a book that you hadn’t even noticed the camera.

There was nothing particularly extraordinary about it. No wild smile, no exuberant joy. Just a child, alone, in a room that looked more like a museum than a bedroom.

“Is that… Y/N?” Yunjin asked slowly, squinting at the screen. The others glanced at you, their expressions unreadable.

The silence stretched as no one said anything for a long moment. The image didn’t make sense to them. They all knew the version of you that was polished, composed, maybe even a little cold. But this—this was the version that didn’t fit. You weren’t playing at being perfect. You weren’t trying to impress anyone.

You were just… existing. Quietly. Alone.

“Wait, is that a book?” Eunchae tilted her head, frowning slightly. “Y/N, you read as a kid?”

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you stared at the screen, the edges of your lips twitching slightly as you tried to keep the mask in place. The camera was still on you.

Finally, you gave a soft shrug, not quite defensive, but distant. “Yeah. I liked reading.”

Chaewon’s gaze lingered on the photo. For a split second, she could’ve sworn she saw something flicker across your face—something deeper than the practiced indifference you always wore. But before she could make sense of it, you snapped back to your usual cold composure.

“Next one,” you muttered, turning your attention elsewhere, arms crossing tighter as if to shield yourself.

But Chaewon’s mind didn’t leave the image. You, curled in silence. Quiet. Alone.

The rest of the session went on, but Chaewon couldn’t shake the image from her mind. It was strange—she hated how easy it was to feel sorry for you, and yet… you wouldn’t let anyone see anything real.

Still, the contrast of how you appeared on screen versus that picture haunted her. It didn’t fit the perfect little act you put on for the camera.

_____

Later that day, after the shoot had wrapped, the group gathered in the lounge to relax. You’d already taken your place at the farthest corner of the room, the same distant look in your eyes that Chaewon had seen so many times before. Eunchae was talking animatedly about some new idea for the channel, but Chaewon wasn’t listening.

She was watching you.

You weren’t talking to anyone. No one was even near you. You had your phone out, scrolling through something, but your expression remained the same—blank, distant, closed off.

Chaewon’s gaze narrowed. There was so much more to you, she was sure of it. And it frustrated her to no end that she couldn’t understand you.

Just when she thought she might approach, maybe try to talk, you looked up suddenly, catching her staring. For a fleeting moment, the coldness in your eyes softened, but then it was gone, replaced by the same indifferent expression.

“Is something wrong, Chaewon?” you asked flatly, but your voice had that strange edge to it. Like you didn’t want anyone to talk to you.

Chaewon didn’t respond immediately. She wasn’t sure what to say. The questions swirled in her mind, but the answers always felt just out of reach.

“No,” she finally said, though she wasn’t sure if it was a lie or not.

The two of you stared at each other for another beat before you turned away, pulling the hood of your sweatshirt a little tighter over your head. Chaewon felt an unexplainable frustration rising within her, but she didn’t say anything.

She was just so tired of the distance.

_____

After the “Guess the Member” game wrapped up, the group decided to play another game, one that had always been a favorite: the Pocky Game.

The rules were simple: two people would face off, each holding a Pocky stick between their teeth. The goal was to eat the Pocky without breaking eye contact, without pulling away. If someone pulled away too early, they’d lose.

Chaewon watched as the members eagerly picked their partners. Yunjin and Sakura were paired up first, both joking around as they took their turns. The laughter was loud and lighthearted as they played, but Chaewon felt her gaze inevitably drift toward you. You had barely spoken all day, and now you were looking particularly reserved, your hands fidgeting in your lap.

Your turn was coming soon. Chaewon could sense it.

The rules weren’t complicated, but for some reason, she couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d be the most awkward participant. It wasn’t like you to open up or let people get too close. You kept to yourself, always hiding behind that cold mask.

Sitting at the far end of the couch, Chaewon watched you out of the corner of her eye. When it was finally your turn to participate, you reluctantly stood up, shoulders tense, and walked toward the center of the group, clearly not thrilled by the idea. Chaewon caught a glimpse of your lips pulling into the slightest frown as you joined the circle, your eyes darting to the floor like you were trying to find a way out.

“Y/N, you’re up!” Eunchae called, excitement in her voice.

You flinched at the attention, your face immediately flushing a soft pink. Chaewon couldn’t help but notice how your eyes avoided anyone else’s, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze. You weren’t just shy; you were visibly flustered, uncomfortable with the idea of being so close to someone. Your mask slipped for just a moment, and Chaewon, of all people, found herself… softening.

She knew that look. The nervousness, the hesitation. The way you tried to shrink into yourself to avoid being the center of attention.

“Who are you going with, Y/N?” Sakura asked, a playful grin tugging at her lips.

You hesitated, glancing at the others, before your gaze landed on Chaewon. It was quick, barely noticeable, but Chaewon caught it.

“Uh… Chaewon,” you muttered, as if the words were forced from your mouth.

Chaewon blinked, surprised for a moment before she smiled. “Alright, looks like I’m up.”

The two of you stood facing each other, the tension thick in the air. You took a deep breath, trying to steel yourself for what was about to happen. Chaewon noticed your hands shaking slightly, but you did a good job of hiding it by keeping them loosely clenched at your sides.

“Ready?” Chaewon asked, trying to make it lighthearted, but it was clear from the way your eyes flickered nervously to the floor that you weren’t ready at all.

You barely nodded.

The members had already started teasing you. “Aww, look at Y/N,” Yunjin teased, “She’s already blushing.”

“Don’t worry, Y/N,” Eunchae chirped. “Chaewon is easy on the eyes.”

You didn’t respond, your face turning even redder at the attention. It was all too much. The teasing. The eyes on you. You just wanted it to be over.

Chaewon wasn’t sure what to expect, but when you finally lifted the Pocky stick to your lips, your eyes were locked firmly on the floor, avoiding everyone. Chaewon bent forward slowly, a teasing smirk tugging at her lips as she tried to hold back a laugh.

It was clear from the start: you were terrified. Not of the game, but of the closeness—the proximity to another person, the chance of eye contact. And it made Chaewon strangely protective.

The first bite was almost sweet. But as the game went on, the distance between your faces lessened, and the tension built. Chaewon could see you trembling just a little. Your hands twitched at your sides, and you kept stealing glances at her, but only for a fraction of a second, as though terrified of what might happen if your eyes met. Your lips were close now, just a breath away, but your gaze never lifted.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. You pulled away suddenly, your cheeks a deep shade of crimson. You didn’t even finish the Pocky stick. You just took a step back, practically fleeing the scene, though you tried to mask your retreat with a cool demeanor.

“W-what?” you stuttered, eyes avoiding everyone’s. “I’m not good at games like this…”

The group burst into laughter, but it wasn’t cruel. It was affectionate, teasing in the way only friends could be.

“Y/N, you were so cute!” Eunchae exclaimed. “Look at your face—so flustered!”

“I thought you were going to die from embarrassment!” Sakura added with a laugh.

Chaewon couldn’t help herself; a smile tugged at her lips. You had been so adorably shy. It was a side of you that no one got to see, and she found herself strangely entranced by it.

But you, of course, wouldn’t let them see it. You quickly recovered your composure, muttering under your breath, “It’s just a game… no big deal.”

Still, when you returned to your spot on the couch, your eyes remained glued to the floor, avoiding anyone’s gaze. Chaewon couldn’t shake the image of you, flustered and real, so different from the perfect, untouchable persona you always put on.

She swallowed the urge to say something, to ask if you were okay. It wasn’t her place, she told herself. You’d never let her close enough to ask.

But even as the laughter died down and the game continued, Chaewon couldn’t stop thinking about how flustered you had been.

_____

The Pocky game was just the beginning. As the vlog continued, the atmosphere among the members shifted subtly, especially after they had noticed how easily flustered you’d become. There was something almost endearing about the way you responded to the attention, and they couldn’t resist the urge to tease you just a little more.

“Alright, time for the next game,” Sakura announced, clapping her hands together. “We’re going to play Truth or Dare!”

There was a chorus of excited groans from the group, but no one seemed to mind. Everyone knew that Truth or Dare would always get the funniest reactions. Yunjin, with her signature mischievous grin, immediately raised her hand.

“Can we make it spicy? Just a little?” she asked with a wink, clearly looking at you.

You stiffened at the suggestion, but your discomfort only made the members laugh. They knew you didn’t like attention, but now they were curious—how far could they push it before you’d break? How much would it take to get you to react?

“We’ll see what happens,” Eunchae said with a wink, clearly enjoying the idea of teasing you. “But no backing out, Y/N. You’re playing this one!”

You tried to ignore their banter, pulling your hoodie up slightly over your head to shield yourself from the attention. But it was too late. Everyone was already focused on you, waiting to see how you’d respond.

The game began innocently enough. Members took turns asking each other embarrassing questions or daring them to do silly things. Chaewon was her usual self—confident, composed, but not without a sense of playful edge. She seemed to be in a good mood, but when her turn came, she paused, glancing over at you.

“Y/N,” Chaewon said, her voice dropping just a little. You looked up, meeting her gaze for the first time in what felt like forever. Your eyes widened for a second before quickly flicking down to the floor again.

“Truth or dare?” Chaewon asked, leaning forward with an expectant smile, clearly enjoying the moment.

You hesitated, your throat tight. You had always hated being put on the spot, and the teasing glint in Chaewon’s eyes wasn’t helping.

“Truth,” you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper.

Chaewon’s grin widened. “Okay, let’s see… What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve done in front of the members?” she asked with a light chuckle.

The rest of the members leaned forward, eager to hear your answer. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks as you avoided their gaze, your mind racing for a safe answer. But there was no escaping the question. You were trapped.

“I… I don’t know,” you mumbled, the words slipping out awkwardly. “I’m always fine around you guys. Nothing embarrassing.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but you couldn’t bring yourself to admit how much you’d been struggling with the group’s energy, how shy you’d felt when everyone began teasing you more openly. It wasn’t a big thing, but it felt huge to you.

“Aw, come on! You must have something!” Yunjin prodded, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “We saw how flustered you got during the Pocky game. Surely, there’s something else you’re hiding.”

The group burst into laughter at Yunjin’s comment, and you felt your face turn a deeper shade of red.

Before you could say anything, Chaewon chimed in, her voice almost teasing. “Don’t worry, Y/N. You don’t have to tell us everything. We already know you’re a little shy when it comes to us.”

Your eyes flickered up, and there was a strange softness in Chaewon’s gaze as she spoke. It almost felt like a… compliment, but you couldn’t be sure.

The group’s teasing didn’t let up, but it was mostly lighthearted. They didn’t want to push you too hard—they just loved how easy it was to get a reaction from you. Even Chaewon was getting a little more playful than usual, noticing how easily you blushed when the others teased you.

“Okay, okay, let’s move on,” Sakura interjected, sensing your discomfort. “Y/N’s turn to ask.”

You blinked, startled by how quickly the attention had shifted away from you. It was like everyone had just… decided to go easy on you, but not without teasing you one more time.

You cleared your throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “Alright… Chaewon,” you said, your voice a little shaky but still steady. “Truth or dare?”

Chaewon raised an eyebrow, obviously intrigued. “Dare,” she said, her voice full of confidence.

You swallowed hard, trying to think of something—anything—that would make her flustered in return. But the truth was, you couldn’t think of anything that would compare to how your face felt right now. You had no choice but to go for something simple.

“I dare you… to give me a compliment,” you said, barely able to keep your voice from shaking.

The room fell quiet for a moment. Even the members seemed caught off guard by your request. But Chaewon, always confident, didn’t hesitate for a second. She leaned forward, her eyes locking with yours, and her voice was soft but sincere.

“You’re honestly one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met, Y/N,” Chaewon said. “You’re not like anyone else. You might act like you don’t care, but I can tell you do. You’re strong… even when you don’t show it.”

You froze.

The room went silent for a moment, and you could feel your heart pounding in your chest. Chaewon’s words were unexpectedly kind, and they hit deeper than you anticipated. Your face was completely flushed now, the heat of embarrassment mixing with something else—something softer.

The group, noticing the shift, immediately erupted in teasing laughter.

“Aww, Chaewon, you’re soft,” Eunchae teased. “You’ve got a thing for Y/N, don’t you?”

You couldn’t look up, could barely breathe as you stared at the floor, your face burning.

Chaewon, on the other hand, was smiling again, but her smile held a hint of something more. She’d noticed it too. That shift. She’d caught you off guard.

[podcastgemist]

#165.3 - JACK&JOZEF - Waarom niet?

Een andere manier van kijken.

[jadeshifting]

— TRAVELING THE MULTIVERSE vs TRAVELING THE WORLD

( a long-winded title for why you should never be scared to post about your niche, less-well-known or original DRs )

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

let’s be real: everyone and their mom is obsessed with jetting off to new places in the world. you know—scrolling through Pinterest boards of Paris cafes, watching vlogs of someone’s Bali retreat, or dreaming about backpacking through South America. we love soaking in the mystery of somewhere we’ve never been. but here’s the kicker: the multiverse is the ultimate travel destination, and it’s just as exciting to hear about someone’s niche desired reality as it is to hear about their trip to Rome

so why do shifters with “niche” DRs keep holding back? you think people only wanna hear about Hogwarts or being famous? PLEASE—we want to know about the far-off corners of your imagination—the places we didn’t even know existed until you opened your mouth. sharing those “off-the-beaten-path” DRs is like dropping us a postcard from another universe, and we fucking live for that

PASSPORT TO POSSIBILITY

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

in this reality, getting a passport is your ticket to explore the world. but shifting? that’s your multiversal passport, babe. and guess what? it’s got unlimited stamps

think about it—just like every country on Earth has its own unique vibe, culture, and history, every DR in the multiverse is brimming with flavor. you’re out here specifying realities with details so rich you could practically smell the street food or feel the cobblestones underfoot. why would you hold yourself back from sharing that kind of magic?

picture this: someone casually tells you they’re shifting to a DR where everyone speaks in rhymes, the skies are lavender, and the economy runs on fruit trading. that’s wild. that’s fresh. that’s kind of a great idea, scripting it right now—that’s the kind of content i need more of. don’t undermine your own creativity. the multiverse is endless, and your DR might be someone’s next “bucket list destination”

EVERY DESTINATION HAS A STORY

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

let’s talk travel bloggers for a sec, for the sake of examples. the best ones? they don’t just tell you about the tourist traps; they give you the juice. they show you the hole-in-the-wall cafe with the best fettuccine, or the tiny town with the down-low annual festival. and that’s exactly the energy i get excited for when you’re talking about your DRs

take Hogwarts, for example. we all wanna know what it’s like to sit in the Great Hall or attend Potions class (trust, we do), but if your DR is, say, a small coastal town in the Wizarding World where you run a little bookshop and spend your weekends drinking enchanted tea by the sea—i’d flip a table to read about that. it’s the details that make a place come alive, whether it’s in this reality or the one next door

your DR doesn’t have to be flashy or “mainstream” to be fascinating. in fact, the more specific and personal it is, the more i’m gonna eat it up

CULTURE SHOCK, BUT MAKE IT COSMIC

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

when people travel, one of the most exciting parts is witnessing and experiencing new cultures. trying new foods, hearing new languages, learning customs that are totally different from your own—it’s all part of the adventure. shifting is a similar deal, but on a cosmic scale

(eyeing those of us with completely original fantasy DRs) maybe your DR has a society where time doesn’t exist, the sky is a different color, or you’re going to work alongside trolls and fairies. maybe in your DR, everyone has a telepathic connection to their past. or maybe you’re in a city built on floating islands where people commute via hot air balloon. give it to me, NOW

don’t underestimate how fascinating and cool your DR sounds just because it doesn’t fit the typical mold. people love hearing about the unfamiliar—whether it’s a country they’ve never visited or a reality they’ve never even imagined

THE TOURIST TRAP MENTALITY

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

you know how everyone and their dog wants to see the Eiffel Tower, even though some people say it’s overrated? it’s totally natural to seek out common experiences, to want to experience and enjoy the same things others are raving about. people, including myself, often gravitate towards the most common DRs (especially when you’re just starting out shifting, and you’ve been given a ticket to the multiverse that you’re trying to make digestible)—Hogwarts, MCU, fame DRs. they’re familiar, there’s tons to read about them, and they’re beyond easy to romanticize. don’t get me wrong, those DRs are classics for a reason, but they’re certainly not the only stops on the multiversal map

your DR might not have a castle or superheroes or any magic at all, but it’s got you—your story, your vision, your unique little slice of the multiverse. and if you’re wanting and willing to share it, there’s always someone out there who’s gonna vibe with it hard—probably countless people. trust me, people are dying to hear about the realities they never even knew existed

SHARE THE JOURNEY, NOT JUST THE DESTINATION

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

part of what makes travel so fascinating is the stories people tell about getting there—the long flights, the missed trains, the odd stories in airports which are basically liminal spaces. shifting is the same way. it’s not just about where you’re going; it’s about all the intricacies of getting there (read: scripting, basically programming your destination into the GPS)

did you script a whole language for your DR? did you spend hours designing the perfect house? did you practically write a novel of the love story between you and your partner? that’s the good stuff. that’s the behind-the-scenes content that makes your DR feel real and relatable, even to the people that aren’t shifting there—to us, it’s like tugging back the curtain on the most creative film of all the time and showing everyone how it was done. you multiversal mastermind

THE BOTTOM LINE: YOUR DR IS YOUR POSTCARD TO THE MULTIVERSE

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

every DR is a little piece of the multiverse that you can bring to light. it doesn’t matter if it’s niche, weird, or completely out of left field. the more unique it is, the more people are gonna wanna hear about it

so stop worrying about whether your DR is “cool enough” or “popular enough.” share it. rant about it. paint us a picture of the world you’ve built, the life you’re living, and the adventures you’re having. because just like with travel, the most unexpected destinations are often the most unforgettable

post about whatever DRs you want !! i wanna read all of them. xoxo :^)

[deminetly]

꒰SCENARIOS TO SCRIPT꒱

——————————————-

putting together a whole theatre performance with your friends and inviting the whole town to come watch

you and your friends discovering an underground club

you and your friends making a secret art installation/street performance at night

you and your friends going on a spontaneous road trip with no destination

you and your friends playing a prank on someone (or each other)

you and your friends finding an ancient map and going on a treasure hunt

costume party

deeptalk with your friend at night while stargazing on a roof

dyeng your hair in a public toilet with friends

working with your friends in a cafe or record store

joining a competition for something you have never done (and winning?)

sneaking out to explore the town at night

you and your friends building a treehouse

finding a love letter in your locker

getting stuck in an elevator with someone you like

finding a stray animal and taking it home with you

passing a lake on your bike ride and deciding to go for a swim fully clothed

starting a (shifting) podcast (with your friends)

making a short film with your friends

getting detention at school but you end up having fun and finding new friends

you and your best friend have a sleepover talking about your dream partners, the next day you go out and meet the exact people you were describing

holiday decorating the house with your family, it all feels exactly as it used to

exploring abandoned castles

renting a bouncy house with your friends

s/o edition

going to an art museum with your s/o and finding a painting of a couple that looks just like you

you and your s/o decide to start a vlog channel and post your dates

faking an engagement to get free desserts in a cafe

skipping a class together to trainhop into a random city together to spend the day as someone else (make up alter egos for each other for a day)

your s/o writing a song about you

buying matching plushies and clothes for them at a thrift store and sending each other pictures of their adventures while youre apart

you and your s/o get voted “best couple” in the yearbook

dressing like each other for a day

hopping on a random bus and staying where ever it takes you for a weekend

a zine picnic where you make zines about each other

going to a thrift store and buying things for your future house ans children

spending 24 hours together without any electronics

designing tattoos for each other

driving around a rich neighbourhood and rating houses

making/buying a stuffed animal and treating it like your baby

they get an assignment where they have to write about someone they love and they make a whole presentation about you

you both deciding to dye your hair the same color

they surprise you with getting your initial in their hair

drawing each other from memory

searching up philosophical questions and answering them together

going to a bookstore and leaving out notes for strangers to find inbetween pages

dressing up as if it was halloween ans going out

they surprise you with something you had pinned in your “wishlist” board on pinterest without you even ever mentioning it

having a shared list of things you want in your future home and building it in minecraft

you and your s/o going out and they draw your initials together on a wall

you and your s/o drawing on each others skin

theres a power outage and huge storm outside, you cuddle up with your s/o in warm candle light and remind each other of past memories together

pretending theres a power outage, lighting candles, putting away all electronics and playing boardgames

buying a boardgame neither of you know how to play and making up the rules as you play

late night drives with your s/o blasting the playlist you made together

having a spa day at home with things you already have

going to an art museum and talking to the people in the paintings

painting date in a beautiful landscape

going randonauticaing together and finding something scary, you go home and they make you tea and comfort you

deeptalk with your friend or s/o at night while stargazing on a roof

them drawing a heart on your hand in class

[nyxshifts10]

havent even finished the intro but i love love love love love my better cr BECAUSE

lots of nicknames (i love nicknames okay)

no racism!! no sexism!! NO PERIODS (im tired of this okay)

no "but you don't LOOK native" (im also tired of this okay)

i WILL become a psychiatrist. i am a teen published author and fic writer. i am a popular youtuber AND a podcast host.

ice skating. gymnastics. video editing. vlogging. traveling. poetry. acting. learning languages. photography. baking. speech and debate. thrifting. diy fashion. tarot. playing the sims and stardew valley. knitting. crochet. journaling. jewelry making. i have time for it all.

I HAVE A BOYFRIEND. he was my childhood friend and when i moved we lost contact. then he moved to ns and we re met online. we are now dating and i love him.

gender? fluid. vibes? unstable but sexy

i get to write morally grey characters

i am an english and history class apologist

FUCK my cr parents i have better ones now and they are LESBIANS

im keeping my brother tho i love him <33

i have a service dog <33

im still chronically ill but its not as shitty

my friends are AWESOME i love them so much <33

like most of them im keeping from my cr but some im scripting in just because i can

jules isnt leaving me

they're staying at our school until they have to graduate

i have first period pe BUT im allowed to just chill and still get good grades

and i have a good geo teacher

because i hate my cr geo teacher

im going to greece and spain during summer break <33

and my boyfriend is coming with me

because fuck you i said so <33

I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND

so so so so so so so so much