౨ৎ records you riding her without asking, saves it in a folder on her desktop named taxes and watches it every time she’s left alone with nothing but her hand to keep her pussy company, the filthy video reflecting on her too-big, nerdy glasses.
౨ৎ pulls you into her lap during dinner just so she can innocently grind her thigh up into you and call you dramatic when a soft mhph slips out.
౨ৎ asks if you’re ovulating just to get on her knees and say she can “smell it,” and she can—this fuckin’ horndog swears she can taste it in your sweat, savour it in the air, and see it in the sway of your hips.
౨ৎ moans your name into your pillow when she humps it on days you’re too tired to fuck—cause she’d never dare push you into anything you don’t feel like doing. she’ll even give you a five-star massage and put you to sleep. either way, she always leaves a sticky patch on your side of the bed like a dog in heat marking territory.
౨ৎ gets a rush from public stuff. like letting her fingers brush the inside of your thigh under the dinner table at family events, then gaslighting you right after. “what a snowflake, i wasn’t even doin’ anything.”
౨ৎ manifests sex by walking around the house with a white, see-through tank top and Calvin Klein boxers. ngghhh.
౨ৎ masturbates to your voice notes when you’re at work—casual, boring updates about what you’ve eaten or done—and she’s fingering herself to your laugh like it’s the best porn she’s ever witnessed. obsessed much? nah. she calls it devotion. same goes for the sound of your voice during arguments, she replays voice memos where you’re yelling at her and imagining you doing it naked. she needs you mean. it’s a necessity, not a want.
౨ৎ presses her strap into your ass while folding laundry together, completely deadpan, like she’s not wearing that thing just to get you dripping. “oops. my bad.”
౨ৎ fucks you in front of the huge mirror hanging in your bedroom so she can see your face falling apart in real time, pulling your hair while hissing, “look at you, look at what i do to you,” and she pounds you like she’s trying to milk your womb and get you pregnant. she cruelly slows down when you’re about to cum, “i know, i know baby—it’s too much, but you’re takin’ it so good,” and won’t stop until your legs shake. keeps going even when you sob, pressing apologetic kisses to your neck and the blade of your shoulder. “one more, i know you’ve got one more in you, for me, c’mon.”
౨ৎ moans your name while she comes in her boxers from dry humping your soaked pussy, shaking like an electrocuted virgin, “fuckfuckfuck baby, i’m gonna cum.” #bringdryhumpingback
౨ৎ gets emotionally and spiritually hard off watching you sleep. not in a romantic way either. she just stares at your parted lips, your shirt riding up, and whispers filthy things under her breath like a creep. and when you do catch her, she doesn’t even look ashamed.
౨ৎ slips her thigh between yours while you’re sleeping, just to keep you open. not even trying anything… unless you move in your sleep.
౨ৎ plays with the hem of your panties when you’re knocked out, fingertips ghosting the lacy edges. sometimes even tucks her hand under your waistband and falls asleep like that.
౨ৎ sleeptalks filth, whimpering your name. “just a taste, babe, please…” then wakes up with her boxers wet and pretends not to remember what the dream was about... even after orgasming three times in her sleep.
౨ৎ grinds in her sleep, needy little humps against the fat of your ass with her arm locked around your waist.
౨ৎ asks if she can nap between your legs, then accidentally falls asleep face-first against your pussy, arms slung around your thighs like you’re some kind of personal mattress.
౨ৎ cries if you don’t let her eat you out when you’re on your period, tells you she’s just spiritually cleansing you from the inside out and that “real love is messy.”
౨ৎ watches old videos of you gagging around her strap when you’re not home, whispering “that’s my fuckin’ wife” while she jerks herself to tears. in her defence, she’s a proud wife.
౨ৎ offers to shave your pussy for you but keeps “accidentally” bumping her knuckles against your clit between passes. “oops,” she drawls, fingers already prying your lips open.
౨ৎ tucks her strap into her boxers before bed, praying you’ll climb on and use her while she’s still asleep.
౨ৎ gets lowkey jealous of your vibrator, calls it names under her breath, and once threw it across the room because it made you come faster than she did (she set a timer). later apologized. to you, not the vibrator.
౨ৎ refuses to wash her face after you sit on it.
౨ৎ makes you sign odd contracts before sex as a joke, but they’re full of “i allow ellie to smell my armpits as much as she wants” and “ellie owns my socks now.”
౨ৎ remembers what you wore on your first date, and gets genuinely mad if you ever try to throw it away.
౨ৎ has an entire notes app filled with your old texts. every compliment you’ve ever given her, she’s written down and reads them back when her brain starts lying again. she even keeps little stolen moments trapped in polaroids of you, tucked in corners of the house.
౨ৎ makes sims of the two of you, builds fake lives, and gets jealous if sim-you flirts with npcs.
౨ৎ gets genuinely upset when you don’t tag her in italian brainrot reels or spam her with random tiktoks. “so you got a side chick, huh?”
౨ৎ says “i would’ve loved you in every lifetime,” with such passion it feels like a threat. “if your soul was reincarnated into a cockroach, i’d still marry you.”
౨ৎ shuts down for ten full minutes when you say someone else is funny, then tries to make you laugh harder just to “win” you back. when it doesn’t work, she sits there questioning everything she’s ever said to you.
౨ৎ claims she wants to be buried next to you when the day comes, and already has a google doc planning it. she showed it to you once at 2am and cried when you laughed.
౨ৎ keeps the tag from the first hoodie you ever bought her, tucked in her wallet like a family heirloom.
౨ৎ snoops through your childhood photo albums not to judge you, but to fall deeper in love with the little version of you she never got to meet :(
౨ৎ refuses to delete your old voicemails, even if they’re just about picking up milk. she has them backed up on a usb, just in case.
౨ৎ stalks your spotify activity. you listen to one breakup song and she’s immediately texting, “you okay?” all concerned like she didn’t just have a mini mental breakdown five minutes before sending that.
౨ৎ laminated screenshots of your first convo and hid them in her guitar case. when you laughed, she deadass called you toxic and didn’t speak to you until you apologized.
౨ৎ has a secret scrapbook of you, but is too shy to show you because it’s full of stolen receipts, screenshots, and the wrapper from the first snack you shared.
౨ৎ gets real quiet real fast every time you say “i need space.” (even if you just mean the couch.) her poor brain goes straight to divorce → abandonment → enemy arc unlocked.
౨ৎ asks every six months if you’d still love her if she lost all her limbs, and takes your answer very seriously.
౨ৎ tugs on your necklace while you’re talking, dragging you closer mid-sentence just to kiss you quiet, “you talk too pretty to ignore.”
౨ৎ cups your tits from under your shirt while you’re watching tv, just to keep her palms full and use them as stress balls.
౨ৎ gets pouty if you roll away from her mid-sleep, grumbling “rude” under her breath and spoons you aggressively out of spite.
౨ৎ pretends to be asleep just to see if you’ll touch her, and if you do brush her hair or stroke her side, she’s smiling into the pillow like a pathetic loser.
౨ৎ starts overthinking the moment you seem distant, even if it’s just work stress. she spirals in silence, convinced she’s done something wrong, and won’t say anything until you pry it out of her. “you’re not bored of me, right?”
౨ৎ compares herself to every girl you follow, scrolling through their pages late at night with a pit in her stomach, wondering if they’re more your type than she is. spoiler: they’re not.
౨ৎ pulls away when she’s insecure, even though she craves your touch more than anything. she goes cold, starts sleeping on the edge of the bed until you notice (you always notice). she doesn’t ask for reassurance right away, but instead she drops weird hints “you don’t have to stay with me, you know,” or “if you ever wanted someone else, i’d get it.”
౨ৎ packs your lunch with dumb sticky notes saying “eat this or i’ll cry.”
౨ৎ used to call you her wife even before she proposed, and even now, years later, she still asks if you wanna grow old together, adding a little scared “if that’s okay” at the end that breaks your heart all over again.
there’s a part of me that wants to be completely and utterly alone. then there’s the other part that desperately clings to anyone i care about. i feel rather pathetic either way.
I think one of the worst symptoms of bpd is the lack of emotional permanence no matter how many good and loving people you have in your life the second you are alone it feels like you were never loved and it was all just a figment of your imagination
