#loserbf

You never planned on falling this hard for someone like Ni-ki.

He was the guy who sat three rows behind you in Advanced Calculus, always doodling mech designs in the margins of his notes, earphones in, hood up even indoors. The kind of boy people called “cute in a pathetic way” when they thought he couldn’t hear. You were the one everyone noticed — confident, sharp tongue, the kind of pretty that made people stare a second too long.

Yet here you were, three months into whatever this was, heart doing stupid flips every time he pushed his glasses up and gave you that small, crooked smile like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

Tonight started innocently enough.

You’d dragged him back to your dorm after he spent the entire study session quietly losing his mind because you kept brushing your leg against his under the library table (accidentally¿)but he wasn't having any of that. The second the door clicked shut he was on you — not rough, never rough with you — but desperate. Hands trembling as they slid under your shirt, mouth clumsy and hot against your neck fondling and squeezing the squishy fat of ur breasts through the thin materialof your top.

“Fuck… I thought about this all day,” he mumbled, voice already hoarse trailing hot kisses from neck to ur shoulders.“You in that skirt… sitting there like you weren’t trying to kill me.”

You laughed softly, tugging his hoodie off. “You’re such a loser, Riki.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, pushing you gently onto the bed, “but I’m your loser.”

Clothes came off in a messy trail. His long fingers — the same ones that could code for eight hours straight without breaking — traced every inch of you like he was memorizing a new map. When he finally pushed inside you, slow and deep, both of you let out shaky sounds that didn’t even sound human.

He bottomed out and stilled, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.

“God… you feel— you always feel so fucking perfect,” he whispered. His voice cracked a little. “Like… like you were made exactly for me. I don’t deserve this. I don’t —”

“Riki,” you cut him off gently, cupping his face. His glasses were slightly fogged. “Shut up and move.”

He let out a broken laugh, moving painfully slow.The first few thrusts were careful, almost reverent. Then something shifted. His hips snapped harder, the shy nerd melting away as he found that spot that made your back arch clean off the bed.

“You’re so tight… every time, fuck” he groaned, voice dropping lower. “It’s like you’re trying to keep me inside forever. Physics doesn’t even explain this— how you can feel this good. I swear I could stay here for hours.”

You moaned his name, nails digging into his shoulders. He was big — unfairly so for someone who looked like he’d never seen a gym — and he knew exactly how to use every inch once he stopped overthinking.

He hooked one of your legs higher, angling deeper, and suddenly the rambling started for real.

“Remember that scene in Neon Genesis where— fuck— where Shinji finally stops running? That’s how I feel when I’m inside you. Like everything else disappears and it’s just… this. Just us.” His thrusts grew messier, more urgent. “I love you. I love you so much it scares me sometimes. Like what if you wake up one day and realize you could do so much better than some dork who builds Gundam models at 3 a.m.?”

Tears pricked your eyes — not from the overwhelming pleasure (though that was definitely part of it), but from the raw honesty in his voice. He always got like this when he was close: vulnerable and filthy at the same time.

“Riki… baby, stop saying nonsense and look at me.”

He did, dark eyes glassy behind his crooked glasses, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

“I chose you,” you gasped between moans. “I want you. The nerd who explains orbital mechanics during foreplay. The one who blushes when I call him pretty boy . All of you.”

That seemed to snap something in him.

His pace turned punishing in the best way, one hand sliding between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit while he drove into you. The wet sounds filled the small room, mixed with his low, broken whimpers and your desperate cries.

“You’re gonna cum for me, right?” he panted, voice wrecked. “Please— I need to feel it. Need to feel you squeezing me while I’m still inside you. I want to fill you up so deep you’ll still feel me tomorrow when you’re sitting in lecture pretending you’re not thinking about this.”

You came hard, vision whiting out, thighs shaking around his waist. He followed right after with a choked moan of your name, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside you, hot and endless.

But he didn’t pull out.

Instead he collapsed carefully on top of you, still buried to the hilt, arms wrapping around your waist like you might disappear if he let go. His face pressed into the crook of your neck, breathing ragged.

You could feel him twitching inside you, oversensitive and spent, yet he stayed there, cockwarming you through the aftershocks.

“Stay like this… just a little longer,” he whispered, voice small again. “I like feeling close. Like I’m still part of you.”

You ran your fingers through his damp hair, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby.”

He let out a quiet, shy laugh against your skin, then mumbled, “You know… if we calculate the average time it takes for my heart rate to return to normal after you wreck me like that, it’s statistically impossible because it never really does. Not when it’s you.”

You smiled, heart so full it almost hurt.

“Shut up, Riki.”

“Make me.”

So you kissed him again — slow, deep, full of everything neither of you could quite say out loud yet.

And in the quiet glow of your desk lamp, with his long body draped over yours and his heartbeat steady against your chest, the rest of the world and all its confusion about how you two fit together faded away.

He was yours.

Loser glasses, rambling mouth, and all.

I often get called an ‘extremist’ because I say I wouldn’t date a guy who laughs at fucking shittystreamers whose whole internet persona is not caring about anything and whose “humor” is making fun of every minority known to man. Fuck them and their spineless behavior and them thinking nothing affects them so they refuse to interact with their environment in any way thats meaningful.

Im not saying I need to date an activist or whatever, but I want to date someone who is, in a way, a “gender-traitor”. Someone who says Fuck you for laughing at those misogynistic so-called ”jokes”, and for giving your money to bitchass kanye west, and listening to every man on earth who refers to women as ‘females’ or ‘bitches’. My ideal man wouldn’t excuse said behavior, wouldn’t watch the ufc, and would believe that women can beat dudes at tennis or videogames. God that’s so simple, it’s honestly disheartening that it’s even something worth mentioning.

My “gender-traitor” wouldn’t read “feminist literature” to pander to women, he would open his eyes and see the way women are treated all over the world just because of their gender, he would view a gay guy talking to him as just a man making conversation, and wouldn’t laugh at shitty attempts of making an Indian accent.

What bothers me is that these traits are viewed as superficial things without a deeper meaning, but I know. That’s the knowledge that bothers me. Why does it feel like im the only one who sees deeper to these things? Im aware of the roots of those comments and behaviors, and I cant just overlook them, because when I do, in an attempt to interact with the male species, I end up feeling like a loser-ass hypocrite. I know what those comments of “women belong in the kitchen” actually fucking mean; I am not below you for being born a woman. the worst part is that when I don’t laugh at those fuckass comments I get labeled as a feminazi or whatever the fuck those braindead cunts say. When you confront them, they get defensive and say its just a joke and that they don’t ‘actually’ mean it, but I know they do, even if subconsciously. I hate your loser friends and the reels you like because “ha ha dark humor”.

If I hadn’t opened my eyes as a 13 year old I probably wouldn’t be this angry, and saying I don’t care is bullshit. I am exhausted of knowing that im viewed as subhuman by a substantial part of society.

If I was stupid I would be happier, with a boyfriend that says he loves me (but has racist/sexists/homophobic friends), and a lot of friends (who called trans people slurs), and I would be super desired (because I hypersexualize myself for validation). Idbehappy. Or maybe I wouldn’t be because I would hate myself for not being hyper-skinny and Aryan or whatever the fuck.

Theres so much more nuance and I could expand so much more but I know what I mean, and I have come to terms with the fact that just me knowing is enough. Mostly because I feel like if I were to try to explain no one would actually listen to me, and even if they say they do, they wouldn’t do it in a meaningful way, because even if they do understand, they will turn around and date the same loser.

Take my sister, she shares all these beliefs but still dates her loser ass boyfriend who is friends with misogynists and has terrible taste overall and absolutely no moral compass.

People tell me that ill get over this once I get a boyfriend, but if I do, that means I lost myself, and I refuse to let go of even the smallest part of me for some random loser who is supposedly adding to my life, not subtracting from my being.

This will now count as a promise to myself: I will never excuse my future bf’s bigoted behavior, regardless of the context in which said behavior occurred, and I will not give myself (as in mine and “self”) up for a male.

Im not saying im some perfect being, im often a terrible apologist as well, but I am not a loser, or loser adjacent. Because its not only better, but far easier to be alone instead of with a fuckass bf who laughs at kai cenat (sp?).

I don’t even know if ill ever get a boyfriend if I keep up this strict program, maybe one day I get tired of being alone and decide to give up my morals for comfort dick, or I get a bf and it lasts two weeks and I dump him for not being able to uphold my “high standards”, even tho theyre not even that fucking hard, its just to have empathy and not be a dickrider for other lame dudes omg. He needs to either not have friends or his friends to all be woke minorities or have an insane amount of moral guilt. He needs to be as miserable as me for knowing the state of our current society like fuuuuuuucccck dude.

The thing is that I feel guilty for even thinking about being ignorant, like its my civil duty to know all the things that have some kind of effect on everyone oppressed.