#and no one SEES A FUCKING PROBLEM WITH THAT

[nanamisgirly]

pussy slapping with your maths teacherྀི

based on this ask (I hope the anon will like it🙂‍↕️)

you knew the email meant trouble the second it landed in your inbox.

subject : “Homework 6 — Integrity Dicussion.” from : Gojo.Satoru@college.ct

so now you're standing outside his office door, palms sweating, thighs pressed together in your miniskirt like that might save you from the cheating homework you assigned. it's not like you're scared of Gojo. he's just your goofy annoyingly attractive nerd math professor. the man wears Gundam socks with his loafers, makes calculus puns, and has a signed photo of Neil deGrasse Tyson on his bookshelf like it's a family heirloom.

but he also happens to have shoulders like a swimmer, hands big enough to palm a basketball, and a mouth made for sin that he hides behind dump jokes with his stupidly slutty glasses. you're not into him or anything tho, you're just not blind.

your knuckles tap against the door.

“come in,” he calls, voice low. too low actually.

you step in, closing the door behind you. 

the first thing you see are the posters of fractals and famous math equations—not surprising. in the other hand, what is really surprising is the life-size cardboard cutout of the pokémon Blastoise. what the fuck is that?

your surprise doesn't stop there, as your eyes land on the chunky old Casio calculator sitting on his desk next to a mug that says, “i'm a cute professor <3”.

he's seated at his desk, glasses on, sleeves rolled to the elbows showing strong forearms scribbled in veins, one ankle resting over the opposite knee like he's got all the time in the world. a lopsided smile appears as he asks “you're nervous ?”

you scoff, clutching your handbag a little tighter. “i'm not.” he's the one to talk—how would anyone look comfortable in a office looking like this?

“mmh. tell yourself that.” he leans, pulls open a drawer and slides out your homework. he taps the edge the paper as he hold it in the air. “you handed your homework last week. and you scored…a beautiful 97.” he tilts his head, gauging your reaction. 

you're feeling a bit too hot now, sweats trickling down your spine, but you try to hold it together. you feign innocence, “yeah, incredible isn't it?” you say, rolling your eyes to play it cool.

he hums thoughtfully. “sure… if you hadn't cheated.”

you swallow, crossing your arms as you cock a hip “a girl scores high and suddenly some old grump of a man's offended by it. what a world we live in.”

gojo leans back in his chair, gaze sliding over your form—lingering a bit too long on your thighs. “is that how it is?" he hums, eyes flicking up to meet yours "just a bitter old man then?” the corner of his mouth twitches like he's trying not to grin 

he clicks his tongue and leans back further, arms spreading across the armchair like he owns the place. he does, actually. his knees spread too—annoyingly wide, “look, we both know you didn't do these problems yourself. and you're gonna redo it. right here. right now. on me.” 

your lips part. “gojo—”

“professor gojo,” he corrects, tone maddeningly even. “you don't want me to call the Academic Integrity Committee, do you?”

you glance down at his thighs, then back up. “you're a math professor. Not my—”

“—brat tamer?” he cuts in smoothly, raising a brow without blinking.

you go still. your jaw clenches, heat crawling up the back of your neck. he's so smug. smug and patient and infuriatingly unfazed.

you step forward and settle on his lap—hovering, refusing to fully sit. if he thinks you're gonna give in that easily, he's dead wrong. you don't care if your thighs start shaking. you'll squat until the apocalypse if you have to.

“ah—!” a squeal rips out of you when his hands clamp around your hips, big and warm and decidedly firm as he drags you down until you're fully seated, straddling his lap. your miniskirt hikes up dangerously high in the process, your bare thighs pressed tight to his slacks.

his breath hitches, almost imperceptibly. you probably wouldn't have noticed if you weren't so hyper-aware of every single shift in the room.

“problem one,” he says, casually putting your paper on the desk like he isn't now rock-hard beneath you like a complete weirdo. his hands stay planted on your thighs, thumbs stroking idly, but his voice stays cold. unbothered, professional almost.

keyword : almost.

you swallow hard, cheeks burning from the sheer proximity—his firm chest pressed to your back, white fluffy hair brushing every time he leans in. his scent clings to your skin—clean linen, cologne, and chalk dust—it's driving you insane. and those damn impossible formulas staring up at you on the paper—differential equations, matrix exponentials, fucking laplace transforms. couldn't he have picked basic calculus ?

your brain is short-circuiting. and the little laughs of the far-too-good-looking-with-his-glasses-pushed-low-on-his-nose professor is doing nothing to ease your nerves. “solve the matrix for the homogeneous system.” your spine stiffens as his voice is nothing but hot air dragging goosebumps up your neck.

“c'mon, engineer girl. use that big brain of yours.” you let out a shaky exhale, trying to focus on the paper even while his fingers toy with the hem of your panties. he hasn't even really touched you, but you're feeling your panties clinging to you—embarrassingly wet.

“one over s-squared plus four?” you try something, mind too fuzzy to think. your breath catches as his fingertips trace your clothed slit—oh very so slowly. he doesn't bother pressing, just lets the fabric catch and soak even more.

“gojo, what are you—”

“professor,” he reminds you, tone suddenly sharp. “and…” he's turning his head, cheek brushing yours as he watches your teeth dig in your bottom lip “no guessing.” you shudder, thighs trembling on his thick one.

that’s ridiculous how sensitive you were from featherlight touches…you’re better than that..so why are your wetting your thighs by seconds ?

“from now on,” his fingers slip beneath the damp lace, two digits brushing your folds, “you get every problem right, you're so good at pretending to be smart—but be smart.” his hand curls back up—cupping your pussy, applying steady pressure to your aching clit through the underwear. your thighs squeeze together instinctively, the heat unbearable.

you stare at the same problem, chest rising and falling in heavy breath. “a-a inverse time b—?” you offer weakly.

a low, pitying sound escapes him.

smack.

“wrong again.” the sudden sharp slap on your cunt makes your entire body jolts in his lap, your ass pressing harder against his cock. your head drops forward, tears prickling your lashes, hips twitching in a pathetic attempt at friction.

it"s so humiliating. that nerd of a teacher. fuck.

“uh-huh, don't move, sweetie. who told you you get to grind on my thigh?” he grabs your jaw with his free hand, forcing you to meet his glacier-blue eyes glinting behind crooked glasses. “let's try again. if f(t) = sin(3t), then what's the Laplace transform?” his breath ghosts over your cheek, one hand directing your gaze to the paper like you aren't already losing your mind.

your mind scrambles, your pussy pulses, and you're cursing the world for putting you in this situation. you can't even help it, it just feels so good. 

your voice breaks on a moan, nothing reflecting your angry mind “three… over…squared plus n-nine—”

gojo groans softly, cock twitching under your ass. “there she is,” he mutters, hand sliding down to rub rough circles against your clit. “smart and fuckable? you might be my new favorite little project sweetie.”

and just as a whimper leaves your lips—the second your hips barely roll forward in a desperate grind—he yanks his hand away.

“what did i say?” he asks, calmly adjusting his glasses like he's not the filthiest thing on earth right now. “no grinding. one right answer doesn't mean you get to cum. you've got four more questions, we're far from done.”

he lands another slap on your clit—scarily precise. “i get to edge you again. and again. until your poor little cunt forgets what cumming even feels like.” you sob his name as he pulls your underwear taut between your fat lips, the soaked lace dragging cruelly against your swollen clit. you shove your fist into your mouth, biting it to stay quiet.

he dips his fingers back into the ruined mess between your legs. not inside—never inside apparently. he's probably a psychopathe who loves skimming his student's pussy entrance, circling it like a threat.

 “if you get all the five right tho," he murmurs darkly, "i'll bend you over this desk and fuck you, raw, with your nose pressed onto that test," your walls clench hard at his words—and he feels it, obviously…

smirking into your hair, he adds, “you'd love that, of course you would. so go on, sweetie. show me you're not just a brainless little brat. show me how much of a perfect slut you are for good grades.”

you swear once you'll get all your mind together, you're gonna make him regret everything. that cocky, small-dick bastard—acting like he's got a big game between his thighs. 

a nerd like him, isn't packing enough to pleasure you. right?

^⌯𖥦⌯^

a/n aaaand we thanks my bachelor in engineer for my knowledge ☝🏼 tho i hope you enjoyed reading this, i don’t think it’s perfect buuut i tried :))) let me know 🫶🏻

[bizarrelovetriangel]

restless nights.

you get into an argument and they become restless without you by their side.

angst with comfort. apologies for any ooc moments and stubborn mc/reader.

sylus

"I'm not taking you with me."

His words left no room for anymore rebuttals. No matter how persistent you got and what reasoning you gave, Sylus continues to reject your request to join him for the upcoming Onychinus mission.

He's never had a problem with you tagging along before, so why now? You've learned from Luke and Kieran that Sylus will be dealing with one of the most dangerous men they'd ever met, so you wanted to support him. When you brought the topic up to him, all he said was that the setting will be too much for you.

You reassured him that you can handle anything, being a hunter who's familiar with the messiest, most vile types of environment, but regardless of your reasonings, he fully intends to go to this mission alone.

"Okay."

The moment he watched you calmly closed the door on your way out of the room, Sylus knew he fucked up.

You avoided him all afternoon, and it didn't take long for loneliness to strike him hard.

He hated the silence.

Knowing you're under the same roof and yet you're deliberately ignoring him... he'd much rather have you screaming at him.

Sylus remained at his working station to continue modifying a weapon that he'd recently purchased; however, his distracted state prevented him from making progress.

The face you made before walking away from him keeps haunting him.

The disappointment in your eyes made his chest unbearably tight.

He tried to push the uncomfortable feeling away, telling himself that his response to you is for the best, but it didn't work at all.

It was difficult to concentrate on anything else.

He wondered what you were up to.

What if you decide to leave because you can't stand to be near him?

Just imagining you rush out of the house while angry caused Sylus' hands to become unsteady and accidentally crossed some wires that weren't supposed to touch.

And so, the weapon sparked and caught on fire.

"...great."

He decided to move on to boxing, hoping to release some anger — not at you, but for his enemies that he'll be seeing for the upcoming mission. If they weren't so... filthy and gruesome, he wouldn't have to worry about keeping you away from them.

After two minutes of hitting the punching bag, Sylus' eyes started to repeatedly glance towards the entrance of the gym, checking to see if a certain someone would walk in for their weekly boxing lessons.

Your boxing gloves are in the usual place, untouched. He recalled the day when you two bought it while shopping: you were so excited about using it, you woke him up early just so you could start boxing while wearing them.

But now, you won't even step in the gym because he made you upset.

Suddenly, Sylus was no longer in the mood to box.

You didn't join him for dinner.

He wasn't surprised, though he felt another pang at his chest when he sat down on the empty dinning table.

He learned from Luke and Kieran that you had already eaten a little earlier while ranting to Mephisto, who was your only companion for supper.

The crow gave him a questioning look as he flew by and parched on the empty chair next to him, where you usually sit.

"I know. I'm working on it."

Sylus went to his bedroom, hoping that you don't run away and that you hear him out.

But when he opened the door, a cold breeze hit him along with a lonely feeling. The room is empty, and you're nowhere to be found.

He knew you're still somewhere in the house; otherwise, Mephisto would've told him already that you'd left. You staying means he's not totally screwed — not yet, at least.

The only other place he thought to check is the room where you used to sleep in, before your relationship became official.

And sure enough, after calming down his nervous, hitched breath, Sylus knocked on the door.

No response, but the room is unlocked.

He dared to take a peak inside and immediately softened at the sight of you sleeping on the bed. His feet acted before his mind and walked up towards your side.

He sat down on the mattress and his eyes slowly traced the ravishing features of your face that he missed, despite the argument being only just several hours ago.

He yearned to touch you, just for a second, to feel your warmth and softness. His right hand carefully reached towards your face, knuckles aiming to brush against your cheek.

But then, you opened your eyes.

Sylus froze for a moment, waiting for you to tell him to leave and stay away from him, but instead, you just blinked at him with curiosity and a hint of amusement.

"What are you doing?"

"...caught me redhanded." he chuckles. "I was looking at you. Because you wouldn't let me do it while you were awake. Sorry to disturb your peaceful sleep."

You watched his hand that was about to touch your face slowly retract, and you wanted to grab it and embrace it.

"...who said I was sleeping peacefully?"

Sylus looks at you with confusion.

"It's hard for me to sleep whenever we have arguments." you murmured, sitting up slowly so you can look at him properly. "I wanted to see you, but..."

You were sulking all afternoon.

You grew tired of arguing with him and thought you'd eventually find the right words to tell him later on, once you've calmed down.

"Me too." Sylus slowly reached for your hand, almost afraid that you'd pull away, though he relaxed once you intertwined your fingers with his. "Let me tell you why I'm against you accompanying me for this mission."

He told you about the shady people he'll be visiting. They are nasty criminals who have done unforgivable things to people, and everything about them is just disgusting — physically and figuratively.

As much as he wanted your company and assistance, Sylus doesn't want them setting their filthy eyes on you. He doesn't want them to know about your existence at all.

Mostly, he doesn't want to waste your time and energy on people like them. He knows you're strong enough to be by his side and help him take them down, just as you have done a few times before, but he'd much rather keep you away from their dirty hands.

"I understand now." You tightened your grip on his hand. "And still.... I want to go with you."

Though his brows furrowed as a silent reply, he stayed quiet and allowed you to fully let out everything you want to say.

"I appreciate your concern for me, truly. But ever since the twins told me about them, that they're dangerous and full of dirty tricks, I can't help but worry.

You're strong and you definitely don't need me, but still... I asked to go with you because I want to support you, just like how you sometimes help me out with my missions."

Sylus was met with the familiar look of persistence and determination in your eyes and realized he was never going to win this argument.

You've always been stubborn.

But that's just one of the reasons why he's so infauted with you.

You win.

"I should have known better than to try to leave you out of something like this." he sighs in defeat, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.

You grinned at his tone. "It'll be fine. And fun — maybe. If not, then I'll suffer with you."

He clicked his tongue and poked your forehead. "Fine. But before we go, you have to prove to me that you're capable of fighting them."

"Hmm? Prove to you, how?"

"You'll have to join me in the boxing ring tomorrow, kitten."

You gasped and your eyes lit up. "My gloves! I've abandoned them! Let's go boxing right now!"

"...weren't you just about to sleep?"

"No way! I wanna hit something now! Come on!"

Sylus allowed himself to be dragged out of the room and brought back to the gym, where the boxing ring awaits.

Unlike earlier, the gym appears to be warmer and much more lively.

At last, Sylus can breathe easily.

zayne

Getting scolded by your lover was not how you were expecting your trip to the hospital to go.

He never raised his voice, but the coldness in his tone was what struck you in the chest.

He reprimanded you for being too reckless and careless at work, stating that you need to pay more attention to your surroundings and not throw yourself in danger at any chance you get.

Maybe you caught him in a bad mood, or maybe he was fed up with all the times that he has to see you with injuries. Either way, you didn't feel like being around him for a while.

Later that night, you fell asleep earlier than usual and missed a call from Zayne. You knew you probably should've called him back once you woke up in the morning, but the memory of him scolding you like a child made you throw your phone aside and momentarily avoid him.

Zayne is wide awake and his eyes are glued to the screen of his phone.

For once, he doesn't have work to keep him up late at night. Instead, you're the reason why he's unable to sleep.

You haven't been returning his texts and calls.

He knew you're upset because of what he did at the hospital. He shouldn't have spoken to you like that. You were already hurt. The last thing you needed was for him to give you a lecture over something you don't have much control over.

Zayne wanted to apologize to you.

He considered going to your apartment so he can properly give his sincere apology, but with the way you've been deflecting his attempts to communicate, he figured you wanted some space from him.

It's understandable that you'd feel that way, but still, Zayne can't ignore the aching in his chest. The other side of the bed feels colder than usual, and the silence of his house was uncomfortable.

You should've been next to him, resting your head on his chest while showing him funny memes and videos of cats after playing silly games on your phone, then you'd randomly come across an interesting article that would be your discussion until the two of you fall asleep.

This time, all he can do is keep checking his phone, just in case you decide to text or call him, and he'd answer in a heartbeat.

He wanted to hear your voice just so knows that everything is going to be okay, and that he doesn't need to worry about the possibility of losing you. Unfortunately, he wasn't granted that wish.

He eventually fell asleep with his phone on hand resting on the empty side of the bed.

Zayne was right.

You really are careless.

Showing up at the hospital twice in a week, just two days after your previous visit, is embarrassing at this point. You admit that your mind wasn't as awake and alert as it should've been, and so you've landed yourself another injury while fighting a Wanderer.

You did your best to hide from Zayne.

In fact, you tried going to a different hospital but Tara dropped you off here and fled instantly, so you have no choice but to go in with your slightly injured shoulder.

It just so happens that Doctor Greyson was the one that treated you, as he was the only one currently available.

You thought you'd be able to leave without seeing Zayne at all, but Greyson was unaware of your current situation so he informed him that he just finished fixing you up and you should be free to leave now.

Zayne just finished a long surgery, but once Greyson passed such valuable information to him, he rushed to your assigned room.

He caught you just as you were about to step out.

"Ah!" You put a hand over your racing heart. "You scared me!"

"Sorry." Zayne paused for a moment. "May I ask you to join me in my office?"

Your stomach shifted anxiously. "Sure..." The walk to the location was filled with nothing but awkward silence, which hurt to think about because it's Zayne.

That's the man whom you love more than anything else.

The last thing you want with him is an uncomfortable silence.

At the very least, you were able to gather your courage to own up to your mistakes.

Once he closed the door...

"I'm sorry!"

Zayne was caught off-guard.

"What?"

"You're right. I've been careless lately." Your shoulders sagged as you accepted defeat. "Like my injury today could've been avoided if only I was a little more cautious. I really do need to work on it better. I'm sorry for ignoring your texts and calls. I know you're just looking out for me."

Zayne let out a breath of relief.

He failed to stop himself from pulling you into his arms, so tight that you let out a gasp, though you didn't complain so he didn't release you just yet.

He desperately needed to hold you.

He was afraid that you might not want to see him anymore because of the way he had spoken to you, but it seems he'd gotten a chance to correct himself.

"I'm sorry for talking to you so coldy." He backed away just a small distance so he could look you in the eyes, though his hands remained locked on your elbows. "There are much better ways to express my concerns for you. I won't make the same mistake again. But also..."

He took your left hand and kissed the back of it. "Please don't ever try to hide your injuries from me whenever you do get hurt."

"Ah...." you wondered how he found out you were trying to hide from him today. "Sorry. I won't."

Zayne smiled and kissed your forehead.

"I'll accept your apology, on one condition...."

"What?"

"You have to spend the night and the whole weekend with me now. To make up for the times when you weren't by my side."

caleb

"I did it to protect you."

"And now, the fleet has all the access to the information that I was supposed to get. But yes. I was so fortunate that The Colonel came to my rescue. Thanks."

Caleb sighs as you shut the door and locked yourself in your own room of his house in Safehaven.

It's true that he interfered with your mission and you failed to do what you were sent for, but the man you were interrogating was equipped with a weapon that could've left you permamently injured.

What was he supposed to do?

He wasn't going to just watch and wait for you to get hurt.

The man just happened to be a common enemy of the fleet and the hunters association, and it seems that you've crossed paths for a race on whoever could capture him first.

While you technically reached him first, Caleb was the one that took him away and had him in captive with the fleet.

He figured he could just find that man and get the information you need, though it seems your mission was time sensitive and you were supposed to report to the association by tonight.

While he feels bad about you failing to accomplish your mission, he doesn't regret barging in to stop the enemy from hurting you.

His priority has always been you and it will always be you.

Everything that he's ever done is to protect you, even if you're against it. That's why this isn't the first time you've fought.

Ever since you were younger, you'd sometimes get mad at him for doing something that was intended to keep you out of harm's way.

It's nothing new.

Still, no matter how many times it happens, Caleb will always hate the feeling of you being upset with him.

He especially cannot stand it when you pretend he doesn't exist. He'd rather you hit him as hard as you can than act as if you don't see him. Otherwise, what other purpose does he have, if not to provide for you and be by your side?

Caleb made dinner for two, but he's the only one in the dinning room, sitting across an empty chair. It's dead silent aside from the noise of the flying vehicles roaming around outside his house.

He already put food in your plate and filled you a glass of juice, just in case you give in to his attempt to lure you out with the delicious smell of tonight's meal.

Caleb took his time eating. He had sent you texts, with lots of stickers, telling you that dinner is ready and that you can come out of your room now, though not a single message had gotten a reply.

His eyes would constantly dart to your closed door, hoping that it would open and you'd stubbornly come out with a pout on your face, just like what you always do ever since you were little.

He wasn't so lucky tonight.

But that doesn't mean he'll let you starve. You can be mad at him, but at the very least, be angry with a full stomach.

Caleb picked up your plate and drink and set it down on the floor right outside your room.

"Pip-squeak." He knocked a couple of times. "It's fine if you don't want to see me. You don't have to forgive me, but please eat something before you sleep. I'll leave the food outside the door."

He paused for a moment, as an apology almost slipped out of his tongue, though he wants to do it properly when you're face-to-face, so he will wait for a better time.

"Goodnight."

Afterwards, Caleb took a long bath before going to bed. You two had plans to watch movies tonight after your mission, but that was definitely not going to happen now. He had no idea things would end like how it did, and now he's staring at a wall feeling empty.

Around midnight, you quietly stepped out of your room. You brought the dirty, empty dishes back in the kitchen so you can wash them and return them in the storage.

Five steps in the dark kitchen and you almost drop the fragile items on your hands.

There's something lurking in the shadows.

"Ah!"

Your right hand swung up to hit the figure that started to walk towards you, ready to hit them with the plate.

The object was caught easily and snatched right out off your fingers. The light switch clicked and soon your eyes had been greeted by bright white light.

And you learned that the figure that had been bathing in darkness is none other than Caleb, who looked just as freaked out as you.

"Why are you still awake?!" you screeched, putting a hand over your pounding heart. "Why are you out here just standing in the dark like some demon?!"

"I wasn't standing in darkness. I was sitting." he huffs, putting the plate on the counter table. "And I should be asking you the same thing, Pip-squeak. Why are you awake?!"

His eyes suddenly widened and his shoulders stiffened.

"You're...not gonna leave, are you?"

He looked like a sad, kicked puppy that made you feel like a super villain.

"No, I'm not leaving." you replied softly, taking a step closer to him after setting down the empty glass of juice on the counter table. "I was just going to wash these... dinner was delicious.... by the way..."

Caleb let out a sigh of relief before a smile came to his face. "I'm glad you liked it. If you still have room in your stomach, wanna go for dessert? I still have some of the ice cream that you bought last time."

Your eyes lit up at the mention of the sweet dessert. "Yes!"

As the two of you enjoyed the ice cream, Caleb took the opportunity to talk about what happened.

"I'll admit that I don't regret interferring with your work to save you from getting hurt." he started slowly, watching you just in case your mood flips again. "But I am sorry for getting you in trouble."

You shook your head. "I'm over it now, but... you have to remember that I'm also capable of dealing with dangerous guys. I may get hurt, but it's part of my job. You don't have to jump out and save me every time, even though I appreciate it and you, every time."

Caleb sighs, recalling you repeating similar words to him before.

He really does jump out of nowhere to save you a lot — in fact, anytime he can, he does it.

"You're right. I know you've gotten strong, Pip-squeak." he grinned, patting your head. "I'll be sure to remember it. But also, you have to remember... worrying about you is part of my job. That'll never change, even if you become the greatest superhero of the deepspace."

"Heh."

You can't help but laugh because it's true.

That is just how Caleb is.

And it's one of the things that you love about him, despite all the times he pissed you off by being over protective.

"If I become the greatest superhero of Deepspace, will you bring me more ice cream?"

Caleb laughs at your empty bowl. "All you have to do is ask and I shall obey, Pip-squeak."

Once drowsiness finally hit you, you returned to bed and this time, Caleb made sure to cling to you the entire time.

rafayel

You'd been extremely busy for almost two weeks because of a big, intricate mission. It left you very little time to rest, and absolutely no time to go out with your lover.

But once you finally got some freedom, the first thing you did was give him a call, asking him out for lunch.

"It's okay, Miss Bodyguard. You don't have to see me if you don't want to. I know you've been really busy to make any time for me."

Maybe he was just joking or being dramatic as usual, but something about his tone rubbed you the wrong way.

"Okay then. Bye."

The moment the call ended, Rafayel wanted to throw his phone at the wall.

Why did he say that?

He'll admit that he has been sulking, disappointed that he hasn't seen you for days; however, he knows it's not your fault. You're just doing your job, after all.

His mood hasn't been the best lately, and he ended up saying the wrong thing to you. Now, he scared you away from him even more.

He wanted to see you and apologize, but you sounded quite mad and he's certain you don't want to see him at the moment, so it's probably best to leave you alone for now.

Thomas entered the studio and almost tripped over a paintbrush on the floor. The place is even messier than before.

He found Rafayel lying on the couch, wide wake and staring at the ceiling.

"Your studio's getting way too messy. Maybe you should clean up a little."

"It's fine. No one's going to come over anyways."

Thomas was quick to notice his dispirited tone. Rafayel already seemed lonely last week, but this time his mood seems worse.

Another proof of that is the lack of progress on the paintings.

"You haven't started anything new yet?"

"I haven't had any inspiration."

The one hint that Thomas got about what was bringing Rafayel down is the yellow bird plushie right next to him, who he may or may not have been talking to.

"So, it's your Miss Hunter, isn't it?"

It's happened a couple of times before. You two have gotten into arguments before and it usually ends in the same way, with Rafayel sulking like this. This time, it might've lasted longer than usual.

"I don't know what happened, but I suggest seeing her and talking it out."

"I know that. But if she doesn't want to see me.... what if she starts screaming and hitting me when I'm there?"

Or worse, you tell him you hate him.

His stomach tightened with discomfort just by thinking about it.

Thomas chuckles lightly. "So what? You can take it, can't you? Then again, she is a hunter.... and she could kill you...."

Rafayel frowned and froze for a moment.

Then, he suddenly rolls over and drops to the floor before jumping to his feet. "Thomas, you're a genius!" he exclaims, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him vigorously. "I don't care if she stabs me with her sword! I'd survive. but... if I go on another day withour seeing her, I might actually die for real..."

"Hh — sure, I guess..."

"I'm gonna go see her now!"

Thomas watched as he started to scramble and sprint out of the room. "Wait, you should clean up first before — "

"Ow! Who put this paint brush here?!"

You opened the door and Rafayel immediately shields his face with his hands, as if to protect himself from you.

"....I don't know what's going on but I'm a little offended."

You wanted to laugh but you reminded yourself that you're still mad at him.

Or at least, you were.

The moment Rafayel showed up at your doorstep, all you want to do is hug him.

"If you're gonna stab me, do it quickly but at least wait until I say sorry first so it doesn't sound like I'm using my last, dying breath to make it up to you. I mean, I would do that too if I must, but I'd prefer if I don't sound pathetic and gross."

"...what?"

Rafayel pulled himself together and held both of your hands.

"I'm sorry for what I said. I promise I didn't mean it at all. I just missed you a lot and... I.... I might've been...a little grumpy because of it... but I still shouldn't have spoken to you like that. I'm really sorry."

You softened and held his hands tighter. "I'm sorry too, for snapping so fast and running away. I also wasn't in the best mood."

Rafayel didn't waste another second before pulling you into his arms.

"Let's not do that again. It's stupid and silly and boring."

"Agreed."

He buried his face against your neck and held you tighter for a little longer while your fingers brush his hair from the back.

Rafayel took a moment to feel your warmth.

You're here, right in front of him, after days that felt like months.

Letting you go will be extremely difficult.

"Miss Bodyguard...."

"Yeah?"

"Do you wanna come to my house? Reddie misses you...

"Just Reddie?"

"...well, I missed you way more, but you can spare him five minutes of attention. But that's it. The rest of your time is mine."

xavier

For your latest mission, Jenna paired you up with a new hunter that just joined your team. She said she wanted him to learn from you, so he became your temporary partner.

Xavier wasn't quite happy with the captain's decision.

Jenna never said he couldn't join you, right? The new guy can keep following you, but that doesn't mean he has to be alone with you.

Fast forward to the end of the mission, Xavier had been so focused on making sure the new guy keeps a fair distance from you, and the newbie almost got hurt.

You took responsibility and jumped in at the very last moment to save him, leaving you with a minor scratch on your left arm. Nonetheless, the mission was a success.

You confronted Xavier afterwards. You didn't care at all about the scratch, but you were more concerned with him letting his jealousy get in the way of the mission.

Captain Jenna scolded him about not following orders. Although she never specified that he couldn't join you, he still messed with the plan that the team discussed early on. Luckily, he's not deeply in trouble: he'd only been warned not to do it again.

You mostly repeated what Jenna said, but you also told Xavier that he shouldn't have gone out of his way to physically keep your temporary partner away from you, and that you wished he trusted you a little more, especially in a professional environment.

Xavier was unable to come up with a response and like always, whenever he's jealous, dark clouds appeared all around him as he sulks.

You didn't feel like cradling him at the moment, mostly because you felt tired from the mission, and you needed to cool your ahead after all that happened.

You went straight to your apartment after work. Soon after taking a shower, you landed on your bed and welcomed a nap.

Xavier anxiously paces back and forth in his apartment.

He knows you're sleeping because of the fitness watch app that you both use. He decided that he'll wait until you wake up before apologizing, so at the mean time, he's practicing in his head what he'll be saying to you.

You two rarely have arguments because he'd learned to be more straightforward with his thoughts and feelings, but when jealousy comes into play, he still struggles to contain himself. He's working on it, but he's having quite a slow progress.

He'll admit that he might have gone a little overboard today, and he hated that his actions led to you getting hurt, even if it's just a scratch. If only he hadn't gotten in the way.

"...I'm going now."

Unable to wait any longer, Xavier teleports out of his apartment and appears on your balcony — it's become a habit of his.

He found you sleeping on the couch of your living room.

Xavier walked up to you quietly and covered your body with the throw bunched up by your feet. He knelt down on the carpeted floor and admired your features.

He knew he shouldn't get jealous so easily, but how could he not?

He's so deeply in love with you, he can't help but act irrationally sometimes.

But even more, he despises whenever you're upset with him and because of him, so he knows he can't keep behaving drastically all the time whenever another person who shows an ounce of admiration for you comes around.

"You smell like burnt cookies."

Xavier snapped out of his thoughts only to realize that you had woken up.

He took a whiff of his white hoodie and confirmed your observation. "I tried to make you some cookies to make up for earlier but I got distracted and forgot about them...."

And by distracted, he means pacing back and forth across the kitchen while writing his apology speech in his head.

"Pfftt.."

Xavier scratched the back of his head while you laughed loudly. His eyes lit up at the sight of your joy on your face.

"I'm sorry about your cookies." he sighs. "And I'm sorry for acting the way I did earlier. I promise I'll... try not to get jealous..."

You laughed again, this time softer as you leaned forward to brush his hair with your fingers. "The truth is, I don't mind that you get jealous sometimes. Even I get jealous too."

"Really?"

"Really."

He never notices you secretly being bitter whenever someone is clearly attracted to him, though you never act out on your jealousy because he always reassures you that he only has eyes for you.

"It's normal to get jealous." you told him. "But next time.... just make sure not to step out of line and get yourself or anyone innocent in trouble."

Xavier nodded and kissed the palm of your hand that had been combing his hair. "I promise I'll be more responsible from now on."

You smiled and pecked his nose.

"The smell of cookies really got me. Wanna try again? I'll help you this time."

"I'd like that. But first...." he rested his face onto your lap. "Can we just stay like this for a little while? I think I need to recharge."

Your hand returns to combing his soft hair. "Of course."

[jaesblogstuff]

Attitude, no problem pt.2, ~pt.1~

oral (f receiving), choking (light + consensual)...smut all around man

The door shuts behind you with a soft click. You toe off your boots, still tasting the spice of red curry on your tongue, and Simon’s jacket brushes your back as he follows close—too close. You barely get your coat half-off before his voice cuts in from behind, low and guttural.

“Been watchin’ you pick at your food all night,” he says. “Figured you’d either start talkin’… or you’d need to be reminded how to use that mouth.” The coat slips from your shoulders and hits the floor. You sigh, just feeling the weight of him behind you. “Simon just forge-“

“You were quiet,” he interrupted, fixing your eyes to him. “Not in a way I like, thought I told you to fix that.” Then his hand wraps around your throat, not tight. Just there. A promise. A warning.

He drops—drops—to his knees like he’s being called, like worship’s second nature. His hands grip behind your thighs, lips already parting as he yanks your pants halfway down your legs. “We're gonna have a little talk, isn't that right?” is he talking to my-

You choke on a moan when his tongue slides up your cunt in one long, filthy stroke. His groan vibrates into you like it pisses him off how good you taste. He tongues your clit with slow, brutal circles. Just enough pressure to drive you insane. No hesitation. No restraint.

You gasp, hips jerking, and his hands tighten, yanking one of your thighs over his shoulders. “You always get quiet when you’re like this?” he mutters into you. “Or just when you’re tryin’ to pretend nothin’s wrong?”

You tremble. Fingers in his hair. His tongue flicks just right and your head thumps back against the wall. “I—I wasn’t pretending,” you manage, breathless.

He hums, like he doesn’t believe you. Lips slick with you, tongue working in slow, punishing strokes. “Don’t lie to me,” he growls, voice nearly lost between your thighs. “You forget who the fuck you’re dealin’ with?” He sucks your clit hard and you cry out, back arching off the wall. Your hands claw at his scalp, and it only makes him groan louder, like he likes being pulled apart.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” you whisper, broken and raw. “Was just a rough morning” His mouth pauses. Just a second. That’s all it takes. He feels the shift—the hesitation. Feels you go quiet. And he stops, just enough to make you notice. He licks once, slow and deep, then breathes against you:

“Say the rest.”

“there’s nothing more…” he fucking stops. With a forceful suck before he lets go and looks up at you.

“I—” You swallow; he continues.“Fuck—I’m… I’m drowning in reports. Price just keeps dropping shit on my desk like I’m his fucking secretary, and Soap—Christ—he keeps asking me to do his tasks ‘cause—fuck, Simon, slow down—‘cause his ego’s too fucking big to admit he can’t handle them”

Simon groans. Deep. Wrecked. Like your honesty just shattered something in him.

“That’s it,” he mutters, voice rough with something between hunger and satisfaction, like he’s been waiting for that. “Good fuckin’ girl.”

But then, He pulls back again. great. Just enough. Fingers still buried in you, but his mouth gone, heat gone, the drag of his tongue gone, and it’s a betrayal so sharp you actually whine, hips bucking, chasing the friction he just ripped away.

“Simon,” you gasp, dizzy, frantic. “What the fuck—”

“You think you get to come after the way you talked to me today?” His voice is low. Dangerous. Almost smug. “You think I forgot that fuckin’ tone? That little attitude you’ve been throwin’ around all goddamn day? Nah, sweetheart.” His fingers curl deep, just once, slow and devastating. “You’re gonna sit with it.”

“Are you…” You bite back a sob, thighs shaking. “You’re seriously punishing me?”

“Not punishin’.” His lips brush your inner thigh, featherlight, maddening. “Just remindin’ you who’s in charge of that pretty little cunt.” You glare down at him, wrecked and furious and dripping for him. “You’re a fucking asshole.” He grins. Licks his lips like he tastes your fury. “Maybe.”

And then he’s kissing you. Filthy. Deep. Letting you taste yourself on his tongue while he lays you back across the sheets, eyes dark, full of something too big for words. He doesn’t stop. Not until you’ve said it all. Not until you’ve come again with his name in your throat and your fears on your lips. You don’t even remember when he stripped— just the heat of his skin against yours now, the weight of him between your thighs, the thick slide of his cock dragging across your slit, smearing you open.

He doesn’t press in right away. He waits. Watches your eyes. Palm still cupping your jaw. Like this part—this slow unraveling—is what he’s been craving all along. “You sure?” he murmurs, voice pitched low, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s grounding you to the moment. “I need to hear it.” (a man of consent yes)

You breathe, shaky. Still wrecked. Still open. “Yes,” you whisper. “Please, Simon.” His name sounds small on your tongue. He groans, like it guts him. And then he presses in.

Thick, slow, unrelenting.

You gasp, hips twitching, legs spreading wider to take him. He moves like he’s afraid to break you, but desperate to fill you, to feel every inch of you wrapped around him. “Fuck,” he breathes. “So tight—still fuckin’ twitchin’”

He sinks deeper. You claw at his shoulders, mouth parting in a soundless moan as he bottoms out, your walls clenching around him like you don’t want to let go. And he just stays there. Not moving. Just breathing against your throat. Letting you feel the weight of him. Letting you get used to it—to him.

Then his lips find your ear. “You don’t need to ask for help,” he murmurs, voice low and burning. “You need to take it. From me. Always.”

He rolls his hips. Once. Deep.

It knocks the air from your lungs. And then again. Slow, deliberate thrusts that drag against every swollen, sensitive nerve he already unraveled with his mouth. He fucks you like he’s trying to build you back up one stroke at a time- steady, grounding, anchored in something real.

Your nails dig into his back. You whimper. He groans, mouth at your throat.

“You needed this, didn’t you?” he rasps. “Needed me to shut your head up for you.” You nod, barely, eyes rolling back as your body tightens around him. “Yeah,” he mutters, leaning closer, lips brushing your ear. “I know. I fuckin’ know.”

Your hips buck. Your eyes burn.

“Simon…”

You sob into his mouth when he kisses you again. This time deeper, tongue claiming yours like he’s desperate to steal your silence, your sorrow, your shame.

His thrusts grow harder, never fast, Just deep. Measured. Every one a promise.

“I’ve got you,” he breathes, over and over, like a prayer. “You hear me? You’re not goin’ anywhere. Not leavin’ you to drown in it.” Your body starts to quake again. The pressure builds fast—your cunt fluttering around him, oversensitive from his mouth, your second orgasm rising like a flood. And he feels it. Of course he does.

“Let go,” he groans. “Don’t hold back this time.”

You fall apart with a cry. Clenching around him, back arching, fingers gripping his forearms like a lifeline as your body spasms through another high, softer than before, but deeper. Devastating. It leaves you wrung out, voice caught in your throat, chest heaving.

He buries himself to the hilt, head tucked against your neck, groaning like it splits him open. Warmth floods you, and he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe—just holds you like the world outside the bed doesn’t exist.

Minutes pass. His hand cradles your jaw. He kisses your temple, once, slow. “Next time,” he murmurs, breath still catching, “you ask for what you need, yeah?” You nod, wrecked. Quiet. And you don’t miss the way he holds you tighter after. Like he already knows it’ll take time. Like he’s not going anywhere until you believe it.

[darkbunnylove]

Task Force 141 finding out Reader has a crush on them

(mainly fluff but also angst because balance)

You thought you were playing it cool. Emphasis on thought. The glances that linger a little too long, the way your body seems to magically gravitate toward them. Barely noticeable, right? Yeah, maybe not so much. Because feelings like that? Oh, they have a way of showing, sweetheart. And once Task Force 141 catches on? Well, let’s just say you’ve got their full attention now.

Soap stays subtle about it for exactly one week. Conveniently, that’s also the same week he figures out you’ve got a soft spot for him. After that, subtlety goes right out the window. Not necessarily because he falls in love easily, but because he’s been working on catching your attention for months now. Laughing a bit too loud at your jokes? Check. Casual hand brushes? Yup. Memorizing the exact creak your boots make when you walk down the hallway? You bet!

So when he finds out you’re actually into him too? This man doubles down immediately. So much you even start finding little sketches of your face tucked into random notebooks. Oh, and of course, Gaz’s in on it too, sending him updates like: “Rec room. Alone. Go.” and “Laundry bay. Casual. Fold something, I don’t know.”

And sure enough, Soap just happens to bump into you. Constantly. Every day. Always asking if you’ve got time for a coffee. A walk. A chat. Already busy? No problem, how about tomorrow? Oh and while he’s at it, what about dinner this weekend? He’s definitely in too deep to pretend it’s casual now.

Gaz would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little smug about knowing you liked him. Not cocky, just very, very pleased. Well, maybe a little unbearable. But how could he not be? A dream like you, being all sweet on him? It’s taking everything in him not to grin like an idiot every time you look his way.

And the idea of you at his side? Of getting to introduce you like “Yeah, I pulled that. Can you believe it?” It makes his chest go so warm he doesn’t know how long he can take it. So he asks for your number through a friend and tries to play it casual. Then he spends too long staring at the message field, debating how many y’s to add to “hey,” or if he should just play it safe with “hi.”

But it’s alright, because soon you’re texting each other every day. Evenings turn into FaceTime calls. He lies on his back in bed, smiling like a fool while you talk about your day. Sometimes you fall asleep mid-call. But he never hangs up first. And during the day? Gaz always seems to show up right when you need a break. Leaning against your office door, telling some ridiculous story that makes you laugh until it hurts. You tell him he’s impossible. He tells you it’s your fault for laughing. Yeah. You’ve got him. Completely.

Ghost, unfortunately, is not so great about it. At least not at first. When he finds out you’ve got a crush on him, his stomach actually drops. Because there is just no fucking way, right? Not someone like you. Not for him. It has to be a mistake. And if he gives in? He’ll ruin it. He knows he will.

So instead of lingering near you, he does the opposite. He avoids you. For weeks. And every time you do bump into each other, he barely says a word. So you’ve already convinced yourself he’s just not interested. And Ghost? Ghost is convincing himself that staying away is the right thing. Until one night. Maybe it’s stupid but fuck, when he sees you on that hookup app, looking good, too good, and open for something casual, he can’t help it. He knows he shouldn’t. But he sends a message anyway. You meet. And a single night slips into hours. Into heat. Into skin against skin...Perfect, right?

No. It eats him alive. Because now he’s sure you think that’s all he wants. That you’ll never know how deep this thing runs for him. He avoids you for another week. Can’t look you in the eye. Until one Saturday morning, he shows up at your door. Apologizing with flowers in hand and everything he can manage to say out loud.

Price doesn’t quite let himself believe you like him. A sweet thing like you? Surely you’ve got admirers. Someone better. Someone not so... worn down. And god, how old were you, anyway?

No, he doesn’t avoid you, but he overcorrects without meaning to. Careful with every word, every glance. Because he refuses to assume. Refuses to risk making you uncomfortable. So everything stays safe. Neutral. Professional. He says things like “Forecast says rain, tonight.” Meanwhile, he’s thinking about the way you laughed at his dumb joke four days ago. Later. Alone. While smoking. Definitely spiraling.

Then, one night at the pub, your people drift off until it’s just the two of you. Maybe you’re sitting a little too close now. Maybe you’ve both had a little too much to drink. He starts to pull away, because he thinks he should. That’s when another man says something. You laugh, just to be polite. Not into it. But still, it stings. So Price moves before he thinks. One step, then he’s there, hand at your lower back. “You alright, love?” he asks. “C’mon, time to go home.” And by home, he means his of course.

[succubusvalentine]

Knight!Simon Riley with a bratty princess reader. CW : Small mentions of violence, fingering, unprotected sex, hate sex(?), Edging, Begging.

Faulds - a piece of plate armor worn below a breastplate to protect the waist and hips.

Cigarettes - 'poor mans smokes', or cigarillos, were some of the first cigarettes made of discarded cigar butts (circa sixteenth century).

Knightage - list of knights.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Simon Riley swore his life to the crown.

He had grown up in a world of violence, where problems were solved with fists, not words. By age twelve, Simons father had broken his nose four times. Leaving a scar and causing his nose to crook at an awkward angle.

He'd won the kingdom multiple battles, even a war in his early days.

Simon Riley was held in a high regard within the knightage, known for his ruthlessness and brutality in the world of war. Simon had quickly become a commander due to his history and loyalty to the crown.

So imagine his surprise when his Grand Cross, Sir John Price, informed him that he would be looking after you, the princess.

Simon protested heavily. He understood that you had recently had an assassination attempt against you, but he did not want to deal with you.

He'd heard the murmurs. That you were impossible to deal with. that you were an absolute brat. Believing you deserved anything and everything due to your birth status.

But he knew he couldn't go against the word of the Grand Cross.

Simons first day with you was hell on Earth. You were insufferable to be around. Always demanding things from Simon and making him carry things around the castle for you.

And after being your personal guard - and assistant - for over four months, he utterly despised you.

You'd get this whiny tone about you. Complain about doing anything and everything. This pouty look. By the Gods, Simon hated it all.

It all came to a head when you and Simon were at the winter solstice ball. You'd been annoying him all night, and when you said that you wanted another one of the knights to replace him? You were in for it.

Simon dragged you from the ballroom, not even making it to your chambers, but instead the empty library.

You'd never seen him so angry. The way he roared at you, his hot breath against your face.

Then you were spun and bent over a lounge chair. Your gown being lifted and panties being ripped off by Simons rough fingers. You don't see him tug off his gauntlet.

"What are you doing you big oaf-ah!" You gasped, two thick fingers filling you and pressing downwards. Causing your hips to jolt and press back against the pleasure.

It felt far better than anything you'd felt before. Biting your bottom lip in an attempt to silence your moans.

Simon had you hurtling towards the edge of bliss, but right as you began to tip over, he pulled his fingers out.

"What the fuck?!" You shouted in that familiar bratty voice that was honestly turning Simon on. Not annoying him like usual.

"You thought you'd come with the attitude you've been giving me Princess?" Simon growled, almost tearing the leather straps on his armour as he pulled off his faulds. Keeping the rest of his armour in tact.

Simon pulled his thick ruddy cock from his drawls, slicking himself up using the mess between your thighs and the remnants of it left on his fingers and palm.

He then pushed himself inside of you. Your hot cunt tightening as he bottomed out.

The moment he began thrusting, Your head fell forward as a moan tore from your throat. It felt incredible. Simon kept a good rhythm, quickly tilting your hips so that he would brush against your g spot with every thrust.

Your eyes rolled back as you began to tip over that edge, only for Simon to pull you back from it by slowing down to an excruciatingly slow pace.

You were about to protest, when Simon spoke. "Apologise."

"What?!"

"Apologise Princess, for acting like a fucking brat these past few months. If you do good enough, I might let you come" Simon growled.

You rolled your eyes, Clenching your fists for a moment. Believing Simon would give you what you wanted. You were the Princess, daughter of the crown he swore to protect and serve. Surely he would just give you what you wanted.

But no, Simon kept his snail like pace.

"Please" you murmur weakly.

"What was that?"

"I said please! 'm sorry for being a brat, okay?!" you almost shout, a small scream of pleasure coming from you as Simon gripped your hips tightly and began thrusting at that heavenly pace once more.

"Why are you such a brat, hm?"

"Because!" you whine, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. Simon beginning to slow his hips again. "Because I wanted your attention!" You gasp, squealing as Simon started to move faster and now rub your clit at the same time.

"Gonna come! Gonna come gonna come gonna come!" You cry out, Arching your back as you came, legs shaking.

Not long after, you felt Simon pull out and finish on your thighs and ass. Claiming you.

You felt like jello as Simon moved you to lie on the cool tile in front of the fireplace, the two of you out of breath.

"This isn't going to stop me from being a brat, you know" you murmured stubbornly, Simon chuckling as he pulled out a cigarette. Lighting it.

"Wasn't betting on it, Princess"

Not like he wanted you to stop, anyway.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

Oh, oh, oh, Val did her research. Val made sure stuff is mostly historically accurate. VAL IS THE COOLEST.

(I'm Val if you couldn't tell).

[sluttapes]

⌞ 𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟 ⌝

christoper owen & matthew bernard sturniolo

𝘤𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘺!𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴ㆍ𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴!𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵ㆍ𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨ㆍ𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨ㆍ𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥ㆍ𝘴𝘦𝘮𝘪-𝘱𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘤ㆍ𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬ㆍ𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨ㆍ𝘱𝘦𝘵 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴ㆍ𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨ㆍ

the drive the next morning was quiet. too quiet.

you sat in the backseat, your body curled slightly toward the window, head resting against the cool glass as the car rolled down the wet mountain roads. the rain had stopped, but the sky was still heavy and gray. it matched the weight in the air between the three of you perfectly. matt drove in silence, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against his thigh. his face was unreadable, his gaze steady on the road. you could see the tension in his jaw, though—tight and sharp, like he was chewing on something he wasn’t ready to spit out.

chris sat beside you, arms crossed, one leg bouncing restlessly. he hadn’t looked at either of you since you got in the car, but his presence was loud. too loud. every shift of his body, every exhale, every sideways glance you caught in your peripheral—it all screamed one thing: he was pissed.

and he hadn’t even said anything yet.

the silence stretched on. long enough to make your stomach knot. long enough to make your skin crawl with heat and guilt and confusion. then chris spoke.

“you know,” he said, casually, voice sharp enough to cut glass. “you two were quiet last night. real quiet.”

your jaw clenched. matt didn’t respond, eyes locked on the road.

chris leaned back, tilting his head toward the ceiling. “like, so quiet i almost thought you weren’t even doing anything.”

you didn’t say a word. didn’t dare to.

“but then again,” he continued, glancing sideways at you now, “you’re not usually quiet, are you?”

your breath caught.

chris smirked when you didn’t respond. “see, i think you wanted me to hear. even if you didn’t say it. part of you wanted me to know. just to get a rise out of me.”

matt exhaled hard through his nose. “jesus, chris.”

“what?” he shrugged, turning to him. “i’m just sayin’. you might’ve fucked her, but i know i could’ve made those pretty moans louder.”

your face flushed hot. embarrassment and something else—something deeper—curled in your stomach like smoke.

matt still didn’t look back. “maybe you should’ve tried acting like you wanted her last night instead of being a moody little bitch.”

“oh, and what, you were just being a gentleman when you started pawing at her like a dog in heat?”

you didn’t know where to look. the car felt too small, the air too tight, like it was pressing against your ribs.

“say what you want,” matt said coolly, eyes still on the road, “but at least she came to my bed. at least she wanted me.”

that one hit. you felt it in the shift of chris’s posture. he turned to you fully now, and you could feel his gaze on you before you saw it.

“that true, baby?” he asked, voice low. “you wanted him?”

your lips parted, but no sound came out. your throat felt dry, your heart pounding like a warning. he leaned closer, one hand brushing against your bare thigh—your shorts riding up from the position you’d curled into.

“you really think he made you feel as good as i could’ve?”

“chris,” you whispered, unsure if it was a plea or a warning.

“what?” he said, voice dropping lower, almost a murmur. “you didn’t have a problem with matt fucking you last night. we both know i can do it better.”

your breath caught again.

his hand didn’t leave your thigh. instead, he dragged his fingers along the inside slowly, deliberately. “want me to prove it?”

you shrugged, opening your mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. they just sat there, stuck between your tongue and your teeth, too heavy to lift. you stuttered, a quiet, confused sound leaving your throat.

“i—i don’t…”

chris’s hand moved higher, his palm settling just under the hem of your shorts. matt glanced in the rearview mirror, his eyes locking with yours for a split second. the look he gave you was unreadable—half warning, half dare. you didn’t stop chris when he tugged gently at your shorts, guiding them lower with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. your legs shifted on instinct, and he took the opening—hooking one of your thighs over his lap, the other bent back against the footwell behind the passenger seat. your whole body tensed. exposed. vulnerable. and watched. matt was silent, but you saw him looking. the mirror caught everything—the way chris’s hand slid along the inside of your thigh, the way your shorts bunched down low, the way your chest rose and fell faster with each second.

chris leaned in again, whispering against your ear, “you gonna tell me to stop?”

you didn’t answer. you didn’t want him to stop.

his fingers ghosted higher, teasing but not touching. “yeah… didn’t think so.”

matt’s voice cut in—low, calm, but ice-cold. “you better think before you do something stupid, chris.”

“what?” chris replied, mock-innocent. “you had your fun. i’m just trying to even the score.”

matt’s jaw tightened. “this isn’t a fucking game.”

“you sure?” chris smirked, eyes flicking between you and the mirror. “’cause it kinda feels like one.”

the car was still moving, winding down slick roads, but everything inside felt like it was teetering on a knife’s edge. your body trembled, not from fear—but from the sheer weight of attention, of heat, of being wanted by both of them in such a raw, messy, almost dangerous way. you didn’t know what was about to happen. you just knew—something was going to break.

the way they turned it into a competition—a silent, sharp-edged contest—should’ve made you roll your eyes. should’ve made you laugh, maybe. but you couldn’t bring yourself to find it funny.

your stomach twisted with nerves, with want, with something dark and unfamiliar. the kind of tension that made your breath shallow, that made the space between your legs throb with awareness. chris’s fingers skimmed just under the edge of your shorts again, slow and testing. and you didn’t stop him.

matt still hadn’t said a word. but the way he was looking at you through the mirror said enough. he wasn’t warning anymore. he was watching.

and god, the way he was watching you—it made something hot coil in your gut. his eyes didn’t leave yours, not even when chris shifted beside you, his hand finally slipping under your shorts in full, his fingers brushing against you over your underwear. your hips twitched at the contact, a small, unintentional sound leaving your throat.

matt saw it. heard it.

you couldn’t look away from him, even as chris leaned in again, his lips at your ear.

“you’re so wet.”

your cheeks flushed instantly, but you didn’t deny it. couldn’t. his fingers stroked slowly, deliberately, and your thighs tightened around his hand, breath catching in your chest.

matt’s voice was low—steady, but thick with something he wasn’t even trying to hide anymore. “keep going.”

chris paused, just for a second. “what?”

“you heard me,” matt said, not looking back—just watching you in the mirror. “go ahead. i wanna see it.”

the shift in the air was immediate. your entire body buzzed, overwhelmed and lit up. it was too much—but not enough at the same time. every nerve was alive. you turned your head slightly, enough to glance at matt through the mirror, eyes wide.

“matt…”

his eyes locked with yours. calm. hungry. “i want you to enjoy it.”

you swallowed thickly.

chris grinned now, smug and sharp. “guess you like an audience, huh?”

you wanted to be embarrassed, to pull away, to say something that would make it all stop—but instead, your hips tilted toward his hand, almost involuntarily. and matt saw that too.

“fuck,” matt muttered, hand gripping the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white.

your leg tensed on chris’s lap as his touch grew firmer, more confident. and even though you were shaking—half with nerves, half with arousal—you didn’t stop it. didn’t want to.

your fingers curled into the fabric of the seat, the soft press of chris’s mouth grazing your jaw now, as he moved against you. his free hand steadied your waist, as if he was making sure you wouldn’t go anywhere. the car kept moving. you didn’t know where this would go—or how far either of them would push. but what you did know, was that whatever line had once existed between the three of you… it was gone now.

you should’ve told them to stop.

any version of you—logical, careful, cautious—would’ve said something. but that version was far away now, drowned out by the heat that had settled low in your belly, by the way your body ached from being touched and watched at the same time. chris’s fingers moved with more purpose now, slow and firm through your underwear. deliberate. like he was trying to prove a point with every stroke. and it was working—your body was giving you away. you couldn’t hide the way your hips pressed toward his hand, couldn’t stop the quiet, desperate breaths that escaped you no matter how hard you tried to bite them back.

he leaned closer, his voice just a whisper near your jaw. “see that, matt?” he said smugly. “she’s fuckin’ dripping.”

matt didn’t answer at first. he didn’t have to. his eyes were still locked with yours in the rearview mirror, heavy-lidded and unreadable, his mouth set in a straight line—but his grip on the wheel was tense. tight.

“is that true?” he asked finally, voice low and smooth. “you letting him get you that worked up?”

you couldn’t even lie. you nodded once, jaw clenched, face hot with the weight of both of their attention. your breath caught when chris pushed your underwear slightly to the side, his fingers skimming you bare now, slow and steady, teasing your edge as his fingers drew slow, teasing circles over your clit. your head fell back against the seat with a soft, shuddering sound.

“shit,” chris muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “didn’t think you’d actually let me do this.”

“don’t flatter yourself,” matt said, voice rough with something darker now. “you didn’t get there on your own.”

chris scoffed. “jealous?”

matt gave a quiet laugh, one hand adjusting on the wheel. “not even close. i wanted to see this.”

your eyes fluttered open at that, catching his gaze again through the mirror. it was different now. darker. possessive. the look in his eyes made your whole body jolt. it was like a current ran through you—too much, but not enough. chris’s hand moved in response to that shift, his touch intensifying. your leg was still draped across his lap, one of your feet resting awkwardly on the center console now, your whole body angled toward him. exposed. flushed. needy. and god, you couldn’t even pretend to act normal anymore. not with the way matt was watching. not with the way chris's fingers picked up the pace, focusing on your clit.

the silence was heavy. the car filled only with the sound of the tires against the wet road, the slick sound of chris playing with your wet, needy pussy, and your soft, uneven breaths.

chris leaned in again, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “you gonna let me finish what he started?” he asked, cocky and low, like he already knew the answer.

matt didn’t say anything this time. he didn’t need to. because the look in the mirror said it all. the air was electric, thick with the sound of your hitched breaths and the slick, sinful rhythm of chris’s fingers working you open. his touch drifted lower, circling your entrance before pressing two fingers into you with a slow, deliberate thrust. your back arched off the seat, a gasp tearing from your throat as he curled his fingers just right, hitting that spot that made your vision blur.

“fuck,” chris hissed, his voice rough with approval. “so fuckin’ sexy, sucking me in like that.”

his thumb brushed your clit in time with each deep stroke, and your hips jerked helplessly against his hand. “that’s it, baby—ride my hand. show him how good i can make you feel.”

matt’s knuckles whitened on the wheel, his eyes flicking to the mirror again. you could see the hunger there now, the way his gaze raked over your splayed legs, chris’s wrist moving between your thighs.

“attagirl,” chris murmured, low and smoky, the praise sending a fresh wave of heat to your core. he chuckled darkly, his lips grazing your ear.

“oh, look at him. can’t even look away.. bet it’s killing him.” he smirked, his eyes meeting matt’s, making sure he heard it all.

you whimpered, nails digging into the seat, but he didn’t relent. “c’mon, mama—squeeze me just like that. fuck, you’re perfect.”

the pressure built mercilessly, your body coiling tighter with every pass of his thumb. you were close—so close—but chris slowed his pace, teasing your clit with featherlight strokes.

“not yet,” he growled, ignoring your frustrated whine. “i want you beggin’ for it. want you to moan my name while i make you cum so he knows how much better i can make you feel.”

matt’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and commanding. “do it.” the car swerved slightly as he glanced back, his composure cracking. “think you’re so much better, chris? so do it. make her feel good.”

chris’s smirk was feral. he shifted, pinning your hips harder against the seat as his fingers plunged deeper, faster, his thumb grinding rough, relentless circles.

“you hear that tone in his voice, baby? he’s jealous.” your legs trembled, thighs shaking as he drove you toward the edge. “but we don’t give a fuck about that right now, don’t we? s’ my turn now to make him jealous anyway, hm?”

you couldn’t answer—couldn’t think. the world narrowed to the heat between your legs, the crude, wet sounds of his hand working you, the way matt’s chest heaved as he watched. chris’s breath came ragged against your neck.

“that’s it, ma, cum f’me.”

your orgasm hit like a thunderclap. your back bowed off the seat, a broken cry tearing free as you ground down on his hand, waves of pleasure ripping through you so violently your lungs burned. chris didn’t let up, his fingers fucking you through it, his praise a growl in your ear.

“gooood girl. that’s it—soak me. let him see what he’s not getting.”

matt’s low curse filled the car as your release slicked chris’s fingers, the sound lewd and undeniable.

the car ride took a turn. you knew that, obviously. but you weren't ready for whatever would happen next, how the three of you could ever be normal around each other again. what happened, between you and matt, between you and chris, between all of you, was incredibly hot. something you never would've done. you were sober now, all of you were, and it made you realize how it wasn't just the alcohol last night.

never in a million years would you have thought you'd have your best friends in this way. but god. you loved it.

previous tape tape extension

dividers by @strangergraphics

@applecidersturniolo you actually cooked with giving me this idea

🎞️ @tits4matt @loser41ifee @sweetshuga @nickysturnss @courta13 @sophsturns @starsforu @h3arts4nat @emely9274 @sturnsrecord

[moku-youbi]

I think I commented on this before, IDK, but I'm not going to shut up about it, because no. NO. You didn't WANT to know. Gaiman showed this side of him self *ages* ago. How do I know? 'Cause it was at least 10+ years ago that he encouraged his fans to dox my friend, on twitter, because she had the audacity to speak up about his disgusting, misogynistic comments about an actress at a con. (Basically some gross dude made a comment to her face about how he jerked off to her, and she was trying to be polite but also clearly uncomfortable and Gaiman told her she should take it as a compliment and not get her panties in a bunch, look it's been a minute, I don't remember all the details anymore)

I screamed about this on many of his posts, told people directly when they praised him on here, and never got so much as a peep of a reply. And this was easily confirmable. At least at the time, the tweets were still there, of her (very non-confrontationally calling him out like "hey, this isn't okay." and him going rabid and siccing his fanbase on her). A rich, famous, influential man with an army of fans on twitter went after a random nobody for pointing out this problematic encounter, and NO ONE CARED. Everyone straight up ignored me.

And okay, fine, maybe you didn't see my reblogs or comments, maybe you weren't one of the people I messaged directly. I'm hardly a name on here. BUT, the thing is, he showed this same behaviour ON THIS FUCKING SITE, all the damn time. The way he belittled people who sent him asks was truly disgusting. Ya know, it's fine to not like the questions you're being asked, especially when they feel repetitive, or if they feel intrusive. But the problem is, Gaiman fostered this parasocial relationship with his fans here, and as long as they were appropriately worshipful, he treated them kindly. But the contempt he showed to the socially awkward, and the way he encouraged his huge fanbase on here to dogpile onto his rude, aggressive replies to their asks, is very telling of what sort of person he is. He could have answered those asks privately. He could have ignored and deleted them. He could have give a very simple "I've already answered this" or "I'm not going to answer these sorts of questions." Instead, he chose to regularly excoriate random nobodies who were FANS OF HIS WORK for not interacting with it in the way he wanted, or asking questions that annoyed him. He made himself accessible on this platform and then behaved very irresponsibly with his fame.

And you all don't get to pretend like this is somehow a revelation. Plenty of you reblogged those disgusting answers he gave to asks--that's how I saw them, because I sure as fuck didn't *follow* him, yet people I did follow would reblog them with a gleeful sort of schadenfreude, a "look at this idiot he's tearing apart," instead of "look at this powerful man using his platform to demean and belittle a fan."

You wanted your gay Angel and Demon (and don't EVEN get me started on Good Omens, dear fucking christ, and how that man RUINED my favourite book, and how everything that was good about it, and lovely about Aziraphale/Crowely came from Pratchett), you wanted your emo boy Dream, you wanted to preen at the famous guy who deigned to walk among us on tumblr, all "Notice me, Senpai!" so you chose to ignore all the ugly stuff and the voices quietly railing against him, until there were too many voices, on too large a platform for you to ignore anymore.

I'm not saying there aren't predators who fly below the radar, because sadly there definitely are, and it's scary. But I'm also not about to let the people who sat idly by while Gaiman bullied fans on the regular clutch their pearls and gasp "how could we have ever known?"

(and because I've legit got people come in my messages before about "why are you attacking me personally about this" the 'you' in this is the collective, not a specific individual, and if you're getting defensive, maybe examine why you feel that way...)

I want to step away from the art-vs-artist side of the Gaiman issue for a bit, and talk about, well, the rest of it. Because those emotions you're feeling would be the same without the art; the art just adds another layer.

Source: I worked with a guy who turned out to be heavily involved in an international, multi-state sex-slavery/trafficking ring.

He was really nice.

Yeah.

It hits like a dumptruck of shit. You don't feel stable in your world anymore. How could someone you interacted with, liked, also be a truly horrible person? How could your judgement be that bad? How can real people, not stylized cartoon bogeymen, be actually doing this shit?

You have to sit with the fact that you couldn't, or probably couldn't, have known. You should have no guilt as part of this horror — but guilt is almost certainly part of that mess you're feeling, because our brains do this associative thing, and somehow "I liked [the version of] the guy [that I knew]", or his creations, becomes "I made a horrible mistake and should feel guilty."

You didn't, loves, you didn't.

We're human, and we can only go by the information we have. And the information we have is only the smallest glimpse into someone else's life.

I didn't work closely with the guy I knew at work, but we chatted. He wasn't just nice; he was one of the only people outside my tiny department who seemed genuinely nice in a workplace that was rapidly becoming incredibly toxic. He loaned me a bike trainer. Occasionally he'd see me at the bus stop and give me a lift home.

Yup. I was a young woman in my twenties and rode in this guy's car. More than once.

When I tell this story that part usually makes people gasp. "You must feel so scared about what could have happened to you!" "You're so lucky nothing happened!"

No, that's not how it worked. I was never in danger. This guy targeted Korean women with little-to-no English who were coerced and powerless. A white, fluent, US citizen coworker wasn't a potential victim. I got to be a person, not prey.

Y'know that little warning bell that goes off, when you're around someone who might be a danger to you? That animal sense that says "Something is off here, watch out"?

Yeah, that doesn't ping if the preferred prey isn't around.

That's what rattled me the most about this. I liked to think of myself as willing to stand up for people with less power than me. I worked with Japanese exchange students in college and put myself bodily between them and creeps, and I sure as hell got that little alarm when some asian-schoolgirl fetishist schmoozed on them. But we were all there.

I had to learn that the alarm won't go off when the hunter isn't hunting. That it's not the solid indicator I might've thought it was. That sometimes this is what the privilege of not being prey does; it completely masks your ability to detect the horrors that are going on.

A lot of people point out that 'people like that' have amazing charisma and ability to lie and manipulate, and that's true. Anyone who's gotten away with this shit for decades is going to be way smoother than the pathetic little hangers-on I dealt with in university. But it's not just that. I seriously, deeply believe that he saw me as a person, and he did not extend personhood to his victims. We didn't have a fake coworker relationship. We had a real one. And just like I don't know the ins-and-outs of most of my coworkers lives, I had no idea that what he did on his down time was perpetrate horrors.

I know this is getting off the topic, but it's so very important. Especially as a message to cis guys: please understand that you won't recognize a creep the way you might think you will. If you're not the preferred prey, the hind-brain alarm won't go off. You have to listen to victims, not your gut feeling that the person seems perfectly nice and normal. It doesn't mean there's never a false accusation, but face the fact that it's usually real, and you don't have enough information to say otherwise.

So, yeah. It fucking sucks. Writing about this twists my insides into tense knots, and it was almost a decade ago. I was never in danger. No one I knew was hurt!

Just countless, powerless women, horrifically abused by someone who was nice to me.

You don't trust your own judgement quite the same way, after. And as utterly shitty as it is, as twisted up and unstead-in-the-world as I felt the day I found out — I don't actually think that's a bad thing.

I think we all need to question our own judgement. It makes us better people.

I don't see villains around every corner just because I knew one, once. But I do own the fact that I can't know, really know, about anyone except those closest to me. They have their own full lives. They'll go from the pinnacles of kindness to the depths of depravity — and I won't know.

It's not a failing. It's just being human. Something to remember before you slap labels on people, before you condemn them or idolize them. Think about how much you can't know, and how flawed our judgement always is.

Grieve for victims, and the feeling of betrayal. But maybe let yourself off the hook, and be a bit slower to skewer others on it.

[willowsnook]

Papaya Was Never the Problem

request: Y/N spends months crushing on Lando, only to be heartbroken when he moves on with someone else. Ready for something real, she realizes she had her eyes on the wrong McLaren driver all along—maybe it was Pato she should’ve seen from the start.

pato o’ward x reader

—----------------------------------

Your 16-year-old self would be disgusted at you if she knew that you’d be 23 and simping over a man who did not feel the same about you. But you couldn’t help it, everytime you thought it was over, Lando would pull your right back in. 

It wasn’t really even his fault, you had both agreed to keep things casual, that you weren’t looking for anything more. But somewhere along the line, it became a little blurred. You tried to take a step back, but everytime you did he pulled you right back closer. Whether it was random flowers he sent to your door, making sure that everyone knew he took your opinion the most serious out of all the McLaren strategists, or coming over to watch a movie and not hooking up. 

You felt crazy. You knew logically that you needed to cut it off but damn you just loved his attention. He could make you feel like you were the only girl in the world. 

But you knew that wasn’t the case. If you weren’t there on his arm, someone else was. It was never anything serious – until it was. 

It was a race day just like any other and you were buried in data, trying to figure out what you could do between now and qualifying to ensure Lando started P1 on Sunday. You had been at it for a while now, interrupted only by the clearing of a throat. Max Fewtrell stood next to your desk, and the look on his face had you instantly stopping. He looked…guilty? 

“What’s up?” You asked, and he hesitated. 

“I need to tell you something that is going to hurt you,” he started. “But you’ve become one of my closest friends so I can’t let this go on any longer.”

“What are you talking about?” You asked, heartbeat raising. 

“Lando is bringing his girlfriend ot the race tomorrow,” Max said and it felt like you had been doused with a cold bucket of water. 

“Girlfriend?” You asked, the word foreign on your tongue. 

"Yeah," Max winced. "I'm so sorry. I thought you knew. It's serious apparently. They've been together for a few months."

A few months. The words echoed in your mind as you tried to process what Max was telling you. All those nights, all those moments that felt like something more—they had meant nothing.

"Who is she?" The question left your lips before you could stop it.

"Some model he met at a party in Monaco." Max's hand came to rest on your shoulder. "You deserve better, Y/N. You always have."

You nodded numbly, tears threatening to spill. "Thanks for telling me."

After Max left, you sat motionless at your desk, staring at the data that suddenly seemed so meaningless. Months of your life wasted on someone who had been leading you on while building a relationship with someone else.

The next day, you kept your head down, focusing entirely on work. When you spotted Lando in the garage, you ducked out of the way, avoiding him for as long as you could. You were forced to finally see him during the pre-race briefing and you doing everything in your power to not look at him did not go unnoticed. 

“Y/n,” Lando called as everyone walked out. “Can we talk?”

You nodded, gaining the courage to look him on the eye. You knew he knew what was happening the second his eyes met yours. 

“I-I I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I should have told you, but we always said it was casual between us right?” 

“Why didn’t you just say something?” You asked, your sadness melting into anger. “Like what’s fucking wrong with you Lando?”

He flinched at your tone, the guilt written all over his face. “I know. I just wanted both of you as long as I could have it.”

“And then you decided that you wanted her more,” you said for him, your heart ripping in half. “Quite frankly I never want to see you again.” 

Hurt flashed across his face but you didn’t give him a chance to respond, moving past him and out the door. 

The race went horribly. Lando dropped from P2 to P10 and it was just a disaster all around. You knew it was your last race, you’d made the decision last night, before even talking to Lando. There were plenty of things you could do with an engineering degree so you weren’t worried. You could go anywhere you wanted. Away from all of this. 

Zak was in a conference room when you found him and you shut the door behind you as you walked in. He looked up at you in surprise, the doom and gloom from the race on his face. 

“Hey y/n, tough day today,” he said and you nodded. “What can I do for you?” 

“I’m going to be leaving McLaren,” you told him, trying to not let your voice waver. This was your first job and you loved the people here. Loved the work, the environment, everything. But you couldn’t stay. 

“What?” Zak veered back, shocked. “After one bad race?” 

“It’s more than one bad race,” you said quietly and in that moment he knew. He’d seen the two of you together, and wasn’t the only McLaren employee that was confused by another girl’s presence today. 

“What are you going to do?” He asked and you shrugged. 

“I don’t know yet,” you admitted and he shook his head. 

“Y/n, you are one of the most talented young strategists we’ve come across,” he told you. “I can’t let you leave.” 

“I can’t stay Zak,” you said, exasperated. He thought for a moment before lighting up. 

“IndyCar,” he said and your eyebrows furrowed. “If you’re okay to move, let me put you on one of our IndyCar teams, probably Patos.” 

You hesitated. You were open to moving somewhere new and across an ocean was pretty far away from Lando. Plus you’d get to stay in racing, which was definitely ideal. 

“Okay, I’ll do it,” you said and Zak grinned. 

“It’s settled then.” 

—-----------------------------------------

“Welcome to Indianapolis!” Your new coworker, Hannah beamed at you from outside of the Arrow-McLaren office in downtown Indy. 

“Thank you,” you said politely.

“I know we don’t go to as many glamorous places as you’re used to but Indy is pretty historic for racing,” she said. 

“Yeah, I actually grew up in Kansas City,” you told her and her eyes widened it surprise. “So I’m familiar with all of this, even if it’s been a while. “

“Sorry! They never tell me anything,” she grumbled. 

“No worries,” you told her sweetly. She led you through the lobby and to the upstairs floor, where different mechanics were working. She was around your age so you felt comfortable chatting with her, happy to have someone to be friends with in a new place. 

“Okay Tony is waiting for you in his office up there,” she told you and you thanked her before stepping into the room. 

“Ahh, y/n, pleasure to meet you,” Tony said, standing up to shake your hand. “Zak sings your praises all the time so I’m happy we got to steal you away.” 

“I’m happy to be here,” you said, sitting down across from him. 

“I’m going to put you on Pato’s team - he’s our best driver here and I think you guys will get along,” he said and you nodded. “Ah here he is, Pato! Come in here for a sec.” 

You turned as the door opened, and in walked a man you'd seen on TV but never in person. Pato O'Ward had a vibrant energy to him, his smile genuine as he entered the room. His eyes landed on you, and for a moment, you felt a flutter of something you couldn't quite place.

"Welcome to the team," he said, extending his hand. His accent was thick but endearing. "Tony has been talking about you all week."

"Has he?" You shook his hand, noticing the calluses that came from gripping a steering wheel for hours on end.

"All good things," Tony assured you. "Pato, Y/N is coming to us from the F1 team. She's one of their top strategists."

"Was," you corrected with a small smile. "I'm all IndyCar now."

"Well, their loss is our gain," Pato said, his gaze not leaving yours. You smiled shyly before turning back to Tom. 

“Well, let’s get started.”

—------------------------------------

IndyCar was a whole new puzzle to crack, but you were loving the challenge. The other strategists had welcomed you with open arms, eager to hear your ideas for the car as you headed into a race weekend. 

Pato was fast, but Alex Palou was faster and it was a problem you were drowning trying to figure it out. It was late, the warm air of Riverside blowing gently through your hair as you stepped outside, eager to take a break. No one else was at the track, just you and a bunch of numbers, just like you preferred it. 

Switching to IndyCar had been a good move. Max had called you a couple of times to check in and you were honest when you told him: you were happy here. Much happier than you were back there. You’d become fast friends with Hannah, and she’d introduced you to her friends, quickly accepting you into the group. 

Working with Pato was a breeze. He was focused and driven but also fun and lighthearted. You ignored the way you caught him looking at you every once in a while. You’d seen that look before, just on a different man in a papaya suit. 

“What are you still doing here?” 

Speak of the devil, you see Pato coming up to you, a boyish smile on his face. You smile back, appreciating the way the track lights hit his face. 

“Trying to get you a win,” you said and he laughed. 

“I thought I was supposed to be doing that,” he replied and you shook your head amused, turning back to stare out at the track. 

"No, I think it's a team effort," you replied, leaning against the railing. "I'm just used to working late. It's a hard habit to break."

"You don't have to do that here," Pato said, moving to stand beside you. His shoulder brushed against yours, and you tried to ignore the warmth that spread through you at the contact.

"I want to," you admitted. "I want to prove that I belong here."

"You already have," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Everyone can see how talented you are."

You turned to look at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. There was something in his eyes that made your heart skip a beat.

"Thank you," you said softly. "That means a lot."

A comfortable silence fell between you as you both gazed out at the empty track. The distant sound of cicadas filled the air and you were too lost in your own thoughts to see the way Pato was looking at you.

“You know,” he said, breaking the silence. “I was supposed to meet you last year in Brazil but I was told to stay away.” 

“By who?” You asked, eyebrows scrunched in confusion as you turned to look at him. You sighed as you saw his face, already knowing the answer. “Lando.”

“Mhm,” Pato answered. “Is that why you came here?” 

“Yes,” you said honestly. “I needed a fresh start.” 

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said and you looked at him once again, his eyes on yours. “He didn’t deserve you.” 

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, suddenly very aware of how close you were standing to him. "You don't even know me," you said softly, but there was no bite to your words.

"I know enough," Pato replied, his voice gentle. "I know you work harder than anyone else on the team. I know you care about the success of everyone around you, not just yourself. And I know that anyone who couldn't see what they had with you is an idiot."

You laughed, shaking your head. "You're just saying that because I'm trying to get you a win."

"No," he said, turning to face you fully now. "I'm saying it because it's true."

The intensity in his gaze made your breath catch. For months, you'd been so focused on getting over Lando, on proving yourself in this new environment, that you hadn't allowed yourself any opportunity to open your heart.

“I can’t start something with you Pato,” you said sadly. “No matter how much I want to. I can’t go through it again.” 

“I don’t think you understand that it would be completely different,” he said but you didn’t say anything, just looked down at your hands. “Okay, if I have to spend the rest of the season proving that to you then I will.” 

—----------------------------------------------------------------

It felt like you were back in F1, watching Max lurking like a shark in the background, quickly gaining on whoever was in front of him like a shark who had seen it’s prey. Except this time the shark was Alex Palou and Pato was unfortunately the prey. Pato had led almost the whole race but Alex did what he did best: win. 

The garage was dejected, despite taking second and third and you fully expected the silent treatment from the drivers. Lando always shut down after races, always so in his head that there was no point in talking to him. Pato was quiet during the debrief but you were used to it so it didn’t bother you. 

Picking up your stuff, you headed out the door. Pato was waiting for you outside and you looked at him in surprise. You would have expected him to get back to the hotel as soon as possible. 

“Do you have plans?” He asked and you shook your head. He was still in his fireproofs, sweat and champagne stained on his face. “Get something to eat with me and talk about the race?”

“We just had a chance to talk about it, but you didn’t say much,” you countered and he rolled his eyes. 

“I just want to talk to you right now, okay? I’ll talk to the rest of the team when we’re back in Indy,” he said. 

You hesitated, caught off guard by his directness. This wasn't what you expected after a race that didn't go his way. But there was something in his eyes—an earnestness that made it impossible to say no.

"Okay," you agreed. "But you should probably change first."

He grinned, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Give me ten minutes."

True to his word, Pato emerged from the motorhome shortly after, dressed in jeans and a simple black t-shirt that hugged his frame. You tried not to stare.

"There's a little place around the corner that's pretty good," he said, leading you away from the track. "I found it last year."

The restaurant was small and unassuming, tucked away from the main streets where most of the racing crowd would go. The hostess greeted Pato by name, clearly recognizing the driver and led you to a table in the back. 

"So," you said, taking a sip of your wine. "Second place isn't bad."

"It's not first," he replied, but there wasn't any bitterness in his tone. "Palou is just... consistently good. But we're getting closer."

“We have the advantage on some of the upcoming tracks though – you’ve performed better than he has in the past.” 

Pato’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, a smirk growing on his face. “Watching my old races huh?”

You rolled your eyes but a smile was evident on your face. “Doing my job.” 

The rest of dinner was spent going through the race almost lap by lap until you really just had nothing left to say. Pato paid the tab and held out his hand to you almost challenging as he got up. You rolled your eyes but took it, letting him lead you out of the restaurant. 

“Tired?” He asked, once you were outside and you nodded. “Okay let’s get you home cariño.”

You blushed at the term of endearment and he grinned widely before tugging you along to the car. The ride back to the hotel was short and he walked you back up to your room, gently pressing his lips against your cheek before saying goodbye. 

Remember what happened with Lando

Remember what happened with Lando

Remember what happened with Lando

You chanted this to yourself as you got into your room but it was becoming hard. Pato seemed to be everything Lando was not but you had built up a lot of walls around your heart. You still didn’t know what you wanted, not sure if you could handle another situationship during a season just hoping that it could be something more in the offseason. 

—---------------------------------------------------------

There was a few weeks in between races so you packed your bags to head off to a nice vacation during your free time. Hannah had begged you to join her and her friends so you found yourself on the sunny beaches of Punta Mita, baking in the Mexican sun. By day three of the vacation your skin had a nice glow to it and you decided you never wanted to go home. 

You were sitting on loungers outside with your friends watching the sunset, a margarita in your hands when you saw a familiar face sitting at another lounge area, his eyes trained on you. Your head snapped towards Hannah who looked over your shoulder then smirked. 

“Did you know he was going to be here?” You asked. 

“I swear I didn’t, but I’m definitely not complaining,” she said with a smirk and you groaned. Soon enough, Pato was walking over with his friends, asking if they could join you all. The seat you were sitting on was definitely big enough for two so you begrudgingly scooted over as Pato plopped down next to you. His arm rested behind you on the back of the lounger and he gave you a small smile. 

“Hola hermosa,” he said cheekily and you couldn’t help but smile at his antics. 

“Are you stalking me Pato O’Ward?” You said and he let his head dip backwards, laughing. 

“Oof, using my full name, does that mean I’m in trouble?” He asked. 

“Maybe,” you teased. 

“I’d love to see what the punishment is,” he murmured, eyes flickering down to your chest. Your face flamed which only made his smirk deepen. He pulled you in closer to his side and you panicked, feeling yours and his friend’s knowing eyes. 

“Pato, everyone can see us,” you whispered. 

“Kind of the point cariño,” he replied, letting his hand fall to rest on your upper arm, tracing the skin with his finger. You started to say something else but he jumped into a conversation with his friend next to him. 

You couldn't help but feel conflicted as you sat nestled against Pato's side, the warmth of his body seeping into yours. The sun was setting over the ocean, painting the sky in vibrant oranges and pinks, and despite your internal protests, this felt... right.

After a couple more rounds of drinks, the group decided to head to a nearby restaurant for dinner. Pato's hand found the small of your back as you walked, guiding you through the crowded beachfront. The gesture was small, but intentional. Public. A statement.

"You're not being very subtle," you murmured as you reached the restaurant.

"I'm not trying to be," he replied, his eyes meeting yours. "I told you I would prove that I'm different."

At dinner, Pato insisted on sitting next to you, his leg occasionally brushing against yours under the table. The conversation flowed easily, most of his friends having been around a lot of his racing so they could keep up with you and Hannah. When it died down, most of the group decided to turn in for the night but you weren’t ready to retire just yet. 

“Walk with me?” You asked Pato and he nodded, slipping his hand into yours as you headed down the shoreline. Being with Pato was easy. You were never stressed, never waiting for the second ball to drop. 

He walked you back to the resort, stopping before the staircase that led up to your floor. You turend to him in confusion but were cut off by his lips against yours. They moved slowly and you found yourself moving against him, bringing your hand up to cup his face. His rested on your waist, holding you close to him. 

You pulled away after a bit, biting your lip as you stared at him. 

“What are you thinking cariño?” He asked. 

You hesitated, heart hammering in your chest. You weren’t sure if it was the warmth of the kiss still lingering on your lips, or the way his voice sounded like honey under the moonlight, but the words tumbled out before you could stop them.

“I like you,” you admitted, eyes dropping to the sand. “But I’m not sure I want to do this again, just be someone there for your convenience not able to commit during the season. I’ve already done that before.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge, one you almost regretted the second you said it. But Pato didn't say anything right away. His expression shifted, the playfulness draining from his face, replaced by something sharper—something that almost looked like hurt.

“Wow,” he finally said, his voice low. “You really think that little of me?”

Your eyes widened, head snapping up. “Pato, I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “You meant it. And maybe that’s on me—maybe I was too forward, maybe I made this all feel too easy. But I’m not him, Y/N.”

He took a step back, still looking at you like you’d just slapped him.

“I’ve never once treated you like an option. I never played games. I’ve shown up, I’ve been honest, and I’ve waited—for you to see me, to trust me. And I would’ve kept waiting if you needed more time.” His voice cracked slightly at the end, and it cut you to your core.

“I’m not asking you to be mine right now,” he added. “I’m not asking you to give me anything you’re not ready for. But I am asking you to stop treating me like a placeholder for your past.”

Your throat tightened, your own eyes stinging with tears you didn’t expect.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Pato nodded slowly, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll wait for you as long as you need, Y/N. But only if you’re willing to believe I’m worth waiting for too.”

And then he turned, starting to walk back toward the resort, leaving you with your bare feet in the sand and your heart unraveling in your hands.

—----------------------------------

You didn’t hear from Pato for the rest of the break and you tried to not think about the silence. It was hard to not compare him to Lando but it felt like you were right back in it. Big fight, usually a misunderstanding, and then he wouldn’t look at you and you’d pretend it didn’t hurt. 

That’s why you were dreading the return to the office, you knew he was going to be there today and you weren’t ready for the silent treatment in person. Hannah gave you a sympathetic look when she saw you, having heard everything that happened when you both travelled home. You spent the first half of the day at your computer, analyzing some data before deciding to get up to grab some coffee. 

Rounding the corner you ran straight into someone, your sorrys were cut off by two arms wrapping around you, pulling you into their chest. 

“Hola hermosa,” Pato whispered into your ear and you relaxed into him, letting your guard down. You couldn’t help the tears starting to gather in your eyes as he pulled away. “Oh cariño, what’s wrong?” 

You tried blinking away the tears, but one fell and was quickly swiped away by his fingers. 

"I thought you were going to be mad at me," you admitted, voice shaky. "I thought you wouldn't want to talk to me anymore."

Pato's face softened, understanding replacing his initial concern. "Is that what he would have done? Gone silent on you?"

You nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

"Look at me," Pato said gently, tilting your chin up. "I meant what I said on the beach. I'm not him. I was hurt, yes. I needed space to think, but I wasn't going to throw away what we have because of one fight."

"I'm sorry," you whispered. "For comparing you to him. For not trusting that you're different."

"I know," he replied, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "And I'm sorry I walked away. I should have stayed, talked it through."

The admittance that he could have done something differently didn’t go unnoticed by you and you started to say something else when someone called out your name. 

“Y/n!”

You turned around to see Zak Brown coming down the hallway and your face broke out into a massive smile. 

“Zak,” you greeted and he pulled you into a bear hug, lifting you off your feet. 

“Oh how I’ve missed you,” your old boss said. “I hope you’ve been keeping up with the F1 races, I need your advice.”

“Of course you do,” you teased. Zak reached out to shake Pato’s hand before Pato excused himself to head to lunch. 

You walked with Zak to the conference room, chatting about the previous F1 races and what he was thinking. 

“I saw you and Pato,” he said as you reached the doors and you froze before deflating. 

“Just hopping from one driver to the next aren’t I?” You asked quietly. “I know what you’re going to say.” 

Zak looked at you carefully, “Lando didn’t deserve you, everyone knew that. But Pato’s different. He looks at you like you’re his whole world so what I was going to say is that I’m happy for you.”

You looked up at him in shock. "You think so?" you asked, a note of vulnerability in your voice that you rarely let anyone hear.

"Y/N, I've known Pato for years now," Zak said, leaning against the doorframe. "That man has always been passionate about racing, about winning. But I've never seen him look at anything the way he looks at you."

You felt warmth spread through your chest at his words.

"Besides," Zak continued with a knowing smile, "I didn't transfer you here just because you needed to get away from Lando. I sent you here because I thought you'd be brilliant with this team. And maybe, just maybe, I thought you and Pato might hit it off."

"You were playing matchmaker?" You laughed incredulously.

"Call it an executive decision," he winked. "Now, about these race strategies..."

The meeting with Zak flew by, and by the time you emerged from the conference room, it was late afternoon. You checked your phone to find a text from Pato.

Dinner tonight? My place. I'll cook.

After stopping by your own place to change into something comfier, you headed to Pato’s. He smiled as he opened the door when you knocked, stepping aside to let you in. 

“It smells amazing,” you commented. You knew you were no longer going to enjoy your family’s white people taco nights after just one glance at what was cooking in the kitchen. 

Pato grinned, stepping back over to the stove to stir something in a pan. “It’s my mom’s recipe,” he said. “I figured if I was going to earn your forgiveness, I should start with food.”

You laughed softly, walking toward the kitchen island. “You already have my forgiveness,” you said, watching the way he moved so confidently around the kitchen, barefoot and in a soft black t-shirt. “But if you want to impress me, this is definitely the right way to do it.”

“Good to know,” he said with a wink. “Because I plan to keep trying.”

Dinner was relaxed, the two of you sitting across from each other at his kitchen table, a bottle of wine between you. He kept your cheeks warm with compliments and your stomach sore from laughing. It was comfortable—easy in a way that didn’t scare you anymore.

After the dishes were done (you washed, he dried), Pato grabbed a blanket and led you out to the small balcony that overlooked downtown Indy. The sun had long set, but the glow of the city lights made everything feel soft and quiet.

You curled your legs beneath you as you settled onto the outdoor couch, Pato sitting next to you and draping the blanket over both your laps.

“It’s kind of wild,” you said after a few minutes, your voice low. “That I ended up here. That it took me going through all of that mess just to realize the right person was someone I hadn’t even met yet.”

Pato turned to look at you, his profile lit up by the warm patio light. “I hate that he made you feel like you were hard to love,” he said quietly. “Because being with you? It feels like the easiest thing in the world.”

You swallowed, heart thudding in your chest as you met his gaze. “I was so scared of getting it wrong again.”

“You didn’t,” he said, reaching out to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “You just hadn’t found the right person to get it right with.”

A beat passed between you before you leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. “Are we really doing this?” you whispered.

Pato smiled, the kind that reached his eyes. “We’ve been doing this for a while now, haven’t we?”

You kissed him again, slower this time—deeper. It didn’t feel like a maybe or a placeholder or a temporary distraction. It felt like a beginning. When you finally pulled away, Pato rested his hand against your cheek.

“So,” he said, eyes dancing, “do I get to call you mine now?”

You couldn’t stop the smile that bloomed across your face. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I think I’d like that.”

“Good,” he murmured, brushing his lips over yours again. “Because I’ve been yours since the day you walked into that office.”

And under the stars, wrapped in his arms, you finally believed it.

[carbine55555]

random facts about columbine

(posting this for the 4th time since i keep getting termed)

* If Eric could change one thing about himself it would be his weight

* When Dylan was a sophomore, he volunteered at a day care. sue remembers him helping little kids line up neatly to take their turns on the swing

* Eric and Dylan's manager had a six year old daughter who was often there while they worked. She loved them and their manager said they treated her very well.

* When one of eric's neighbours lost her puppy, he looked for it and brought it back to her

* Eric would help his mom garden

* Eric and Dylan went to two rammstein concerts together. they were on december 8th, 1997 and may

* 1st, 1998. KMFDM opened for the first one.

* Dylan used the the Breman Bold font for his wrath shirt.
We're unsure what Eric used but it could potentially be
Massacre.
Dylan picked out his cat, rocky, from a litter of kittens when he was in 3rd grade

* Dylan's favorite baseball player was Roger Clemens

* At blackjack, Eric made $7.65 an hour and Dylan made $6.50 an hour

* Eric had $113 in his wallet at the time of his death

* For his english class, Eric chose these three books to read and write an essay about. Return from the stars was his favorite one.

* According to a Jennifer Harmon, a girl in Eric and Dylan's creative writing class, Dylan would pass out chips ahoy cookies during this class as an attempt to make friends. she said they were "the chewy kind with big chocolate chunks." During the basement tapes, Dylan pumped a shotgun and pointed it at Eric, who was filming, making him scream "jesus christ, put the fucking safety on!"

* During the massacre, Eric and Dylan had match strikers taped to their forearms so they could easily light their bombs. they are visible in this photo from the evidence exhibit. you can also see the tape on Dylan's wrist in the suicide photo.

* Eric and Dylan had other nicknames besides Reb and Vodka. Eric's were indigo, reverend, and war. Dylan's were green and death.
After they committed suicide, Eric had 18 9mm bullets and 14 shotguns shells left. Dylan had 3 9mm bullets and 14 shotgun shells left.

* On March 14, 1998, Dylan got a ticket for failing to stop at a red light. He had to go to court for it on april 29. he wrote, "red light court. dam ni**az better not take me license.

* Two months before columbine, Eric's dog was seriously ill. Dylan picked up Eric's shift at blackjack so he could stay home and be with his dog. Sue felt sad for Eric and told Dylan she was proud of him for being such a good friend.

* After the massacre, Kevin harris told friends he blamed himself because he went away to college and wasn't around to help his brother cope with whatever problems he was having.

* The morning after the massacre, Wayne Harris phoned the family dentist. Eric had an appointment on june 30th and he needed to cancel it.

* Eric was not Dylan's first choice for NBK. He originally wanted to do it by himself, with a girl, or with (presumably) Zack Heckler.

* Devon Adams said Sue wore Dylan's jeans after his death. The only person on their shitlists who got shot was

* Austin Eubanks. Austin was friends with Corey Depooter. He died in 2019 due to an opioid addiction.

* When Eric lived in Michigan, his dad was a scout leader and helped coach sports teams. he played basketball in their driveway with Eric and Kevin. His mom helped his 5th grade class make special shirts for halloween. Both his parents always attended the parent-teacher conferences

* A few weeks before the massacre, Dylan was banned from using the school computers because he called a librarian a bitch after she asked him to pay for printing over 10 pages. When told he was banned, he just said,
"well, you know, it doesn't matter. it doesn't matter."

* Dylan was friends with Rachel Scott's prom date, Nick Baumgart, between 3-5th and 7-8th grade (Eric was also friends with him 7-8th). In the basement tapes, Eric said he laughed too much and "those two girls sitting next to you probably want you to shut the fuck up too".

* Eric, Dylan, and Zach Heckler also targeted Nick's house during a Rebel Mission on February 7, 1997. Eric described what they did to his house and their reasoning for targeting him in his writings.

* Brandi Tinklenburg, the girl in the Eric In Columbine video, would study in the library every tuesday morning during her lunch hour. The only reason she wasn't there the day of the massacre was because she went to the tanning salon instead.

* The only reason cameras were installed in columbine's cafeteria was to catch students who left trash on the tables.

* Dylan's locker number was 837 and his combo was

* 19-37-9. And Eric's locker number was 624 and his combo was 16-48-30.

* V

* • Eric wrote "anniversary card" in his school planner under april 17, 1998 to remind himself to get his parents a card for their 28th wedding anniversary. When police arrived at Eric's house after the massacre and tried to go in his room, Kathy Harris tried to stop them. she said, "i don't want you to go in there." The officers persisted and she complied.

* Dylan's body was released to Horan & Mccontay funeral home. services were on april 24th, 1999 at 1:30pm.

8-10 people attended.

* Eric's body was released to aspen funeral home. No services were provided. It is unknown if the harris family had a private funeral for Eric or not.

* Eric got surgery to correct his pectus excavatum on December 16th 1993 at Fitzsimons Army Medical Centre in Aurora, co. He wrote, "when i got back from the hospital, i couldn't do anything that involved using my chest muscles. that meant i barely could even laugh."

* Dylan was going to major in computer science at the university of Arizona. Eric was almost positive he didn't want to go to a 4 year college, but he told a friend he might go to a 2 year college and "major in computer graphics or something."

* Eric knew he was rejected by the marines. Nate Dykeman said, "Dylan and I were the first ones Eric told about the rejection. He asked me, 'where do I go from there?' he saw it as a last option."

* Dylan's SAT score was 1210. He got 560 on the verbal part and 650 on the math part, putting him in the 75th percentile.

* During the massacre, eric or dylan (probably dylan) was heard saying, "today is the day the world comes to an end, today is the day we die," in the cafeteria. Eric and Dylan both dated the same girl, Sasha Jacobs.

* She went on 1-2 dates with Dylan and stopped because there was "something strange" about him. Then she went on 16-20 dates with Eric over a period of four months before also breaking up with him. After she broke up with him, Eric wrote in Chad Laughlin's yearbook about her. She also started to receive threats in her email which she suspected were from Eric.

* Eric's favorite magazines were Guns and Ammo, Penthouse, and Time.

* Dylan was born at the lutheran medical center in wheat ridge, co.

* Wayne Harris believed Brooks Brown was out to get Eric and that he was a "manipulative con artist." He wrote

"Eric is not at fault," him and Kathy felt victimized too, and they didn't want to be accused "everytime something supposedly happens."

* Eric scored a 46 on the marine recruitment asval test, which is an average score.

* Starting when he was 8 months old and until he was about 1 and a half years old, Eric went to the doctor at least 11 times due to a congenital leg problem. It wasn't elaborated on in his medical records, but his walk appears to have been bow-legged.

* Wilder Wien by RAMMSTEIN played in the original hitmen for hire during the scenes where Eric and Dylan were walking in their trench coats, but jeffco silenced the music (presumably) because of copyright.

* Mike Vendegnia (the guy in the white shirt in the Eric in columbine video) was friends with Corey Depooter.
Mike described Corey as "very bright and easy to get along with."

* Dylan tore off the bmw emblems on the front and back of his car. Zack Rissmiller said he did this, and after the massacre, police found the emblems in his glovebox. • A witness in the cafeteria heard Eric or Dylan yell

"check the window" and "one's coming in" as they were trying to detonate the bombs. They were likely anticipating that cops would enter the school at any second and were as shocked as everyone else was that they weren't coming.

* Eric's phone number was 303-762-1212.

* Dylan's phone number was 303-972-1131.

* Valeen Schnurr was holding hands with Lauren

* Townsend as she passed away.

* Dylan paid between $200 and $300 for his sunglasses.

* During the shooting, librarian Peggy Dodd told Brian Anderson, "i have to get out of here, they hate me, they're going to kill me." a few weeks before the massacre, Dylan called her a bitch when she asked him to pay for using the printer.

* Dylan told a classmate that the reason he wore a soviet pin on his boot was "just to get a reaction out of people.

* When Eric applied to tortilla wraps, he listed his english teacher, Mr. Webb, and Sue Klebold as references.

* One christmas, Sue fretted because Dylan wanted a collectible baseball card that cost as much as she had planned to spend on all his gifts. She worried about only having one gift under the tree. but that's what Dylan wanted, and that's all he got.

* Some of Dylan's favourite foods were scrambled egg, pizza, beef stew, lasagna, pumpkin pie spice cake and Dr Pepper as his favourite drink.

* Before Austin Eubanks left the library, he checked Corey Depooter for a pulse and detected no signs of life. Eric and Dylan threw a total of 31 bombs inside the library, but only 5 of them actually exploded.

* Neither Eric or Dylan wanted to have kids. Eric said, "i don't think i would want to bring a child into this world." Dylan said, "i'm never having kids. kids just mess up your life."

* A total of 76 bombs were found inside and outside columbine high school. Only 30 of those bombs actually exploded.

[aalana-bear14]

Looking for a dp x dc post where the Justice League mess up and end up believing the GIW nonsense about ghosts.They capture Phantom and they know he’s the king so they make him agree to take all of the undead/non living out of the living realm.Ofcourse this backfires on them and I can’t remember if some of these details were in the reblogs or the original post but Phantom took Jason and a bunch of people like I think hospital patients/comatose people because they somehow counted.

Also Phantom took away the ability to die which originally had everyone rejoicing until they realized that the animals weren’t dying either.Also messed up villains like Joker could literally rip people into pieces and they wouldn’t have the release of death.(I think some people were blown apart by Joker’s bombs or smth)

I also remember the villains were pooling their resources together to fix the JL’s fuck up to make amends with Phantom and fix the food problem.(Like Lex Luther)

The general population were so mad at the JL for dooming them to a fate worse then death that they attacked them.I specifically remember a scene where I think the Flash was like “Did you see what they did to Superman?!”. That post ended with Batman and the remaining members of JL about to enter a portal to the Infinite realms.Most likely trying to make amends with Phantom or trying to force him to.

Also since nobody could die Ra’s whole Lazarus pit giving him immortality thing made him irrelevant since he’s no longer the only immortal.In one of the reblogs/comments dude even left for the Infinite Realms and became some teacher/mentor figure in the Infinite Realms and got redemption.

[kurooh]

FIRST DATE JITTERS ☆ MIYA ATSUMU

atsumu swears he isn’t crazy.

yes, he’s talking to himself while standing in the middle of his very empty apartment, right at the epicenter of the mess he’s made with his own hands. a lamp gifted to him by his mom is on its side on the floor, the lampshade permanently dented now—the flung shoes that had knocked it over are beside it, the toes pointing right at him to further prove that it was entirely his doing.

rumpled blankets are hanging off the foot of the bed, touching the floor while they’re weighed down by all of the clothes he’s dragged out of his closet. somehow, his high school jersey made it into the mix. god, like he’d ever wear that to a date.

atsumu slams down on the dial button again and waits impatiently, starting to fidget as the low tone of the phone drones into his ear. if he gets sent to voicemail one more fucking time—

“what do ya want, tsumu?” osamu’s grumble crackles through the phone, accompanied by the sounds of talking and clinking dishes. “ya only called me nineteen fuckin’ times. should’a known it was only a matter a’time before ya called the fuc—ahem, the restaurant.”

“answer yer phone an’ i wouldn’t have’ta call ya so many goddamn times! listen, i need yer help with something, i’ve gotta pick up a date in a half hour and i—”

“tsumu has a wittle date, huh?” on the other side, osamu ignores the weird looks from customers and his own staff members as he pitches his voice. “and ya just had ta make it my problem. i’m not comin’ over there, ya need to deal with it yerself.”

atsumu sighs indignantly, practically blowing steam out through his nostrils like a wild bison. his brother is really, really getting on his last nerve, but he doesn’t want to show up at your place with a vein bulging out of his forehead, so he tries to calm himself. “if ya’d just listen ta me, ya’d understand that i need some help choosing what ta wear. my apartment’s a fuckin’ mess right now, which coulda been prevented if ya picked up earlier, goddamn it!”

he shouts the last of it and hopes that osamu doesn’t hang up and instead senses his plight with the hard-wired brotherly instincts they both share.

“sorry, what was that? the restaurant’s real busy, i think i might have to get back to it.”

“i need yer advice! i don’t know what i should wear ta pick her up, so stop messin’ around and help me. yer the one who’s been on more dates anyway, ya scrub.”

osamu sighs, probably fidgeting with the phone cord as he contemplates giving in and helping out. this is the first time his brother has called with this much desperation over a date, of all things—he honestly thought that atsumu would get better at this whole song and dance once he made it onto msby. he supposes it’s a good thing that he’s the one atsumu is calling, and it’s a nice little ego boost too.

anyway, between the two of them, he’s always had an easier time talking to and wooing women. you’ve come up in their conversations a few times before, but atsumu tends to drone on about how much he likes you, so osamu pointedly avoids the topic. as much as osamu loves him, he knows that his brother can be a bit much—awkwardly making jokes when he first meets someone, describing volleyball to them against their will, and worse, texting back too quickly to start up more torturous conversations.

but from what atsumu’s divulged to him over the phone, osamu understands that you are a perfect match for his brother. you balance out all of his excitement and listen to his volleyball stories—even laughing genuinely at a few of them—in a way that nobody has before. osamu wants his brother to be happy, and he also wants to be the one credited with bringing the two of you together (he can see this working out in the long run).

“m’kay, tsumu, open yer ears and listen closely. got it?”

atsumu’s trying not to start sweating and ruin the results of what ended up being an hour long shower; you unknowingly send him a friendly text letting him know you’re ready to go and awaiting him. “yeah, i got it . . samu, fuck, she’s sayin’ she’s ready and—”

osamu snaps into the serious, focused persona he usually reserves for when he’s crammed in the kitchen during a holiday rush hour. “ignore her text an’ tell me what yer options are. i assume yer takin’ her ta dinner, right?”

“fancy place over on eleventh street. both of ‘em are dress shirts, but it’s between dark blue, white, and—”

“dark blue, tsumu. make sure it has a goddamn collar, you ain’t going ta a team dinner.”

atsumu frowns as he holds up the shirt, scanning over the fabric for a single wrinkle. he got everything he could find dry cleaned just for this moment and steamed—three dress shirts, two pairs of pants, a vest, and two ties. you’re probably sitting on the couch at home, waiting for a text back in your pretty dress, completely unaware of the fact that he’s spiraling. seeing the dry cleaning bill plus the rush charge on top of it made him take a lap around the parking lot, but he returned brandishing his card, reminding himself that this much effort would totally be worth it. “‘m gonna go with the black pants. should i wear a vest too or will she laugh at me?”

osamu winces, sucking in a sharp breath at the thought. this is a risky maneuver, but it should be fine if he balances it out with a nice tie. one of his waitresses is mouthing a plea for help toward him, and he’s trying to let her know he needs two more minutes max.

“samu, come on,” his voice gets whiny and he stamps his foot on the carpet in frustration. “‘m getting sweaty already.”

“deodorant before ya put anything on, don’t wanna take her breath away with yer stench. match the vest ta the pants, make sure ya got clean socks on.”

“oh, fuck off! i always wear clean socks, it was only that one time.” atsumu is currently rifling through his drawers for a pair of clean socks without patterns in case you end up seeing them later on, and he finally comes up with a tight ball of fabric. he holds it up like it’s a gold nugget, the eureka of the decade, and then remembers that nobody is in the apartment with him.

“look, tsumu, i gotta go. remember ta be a gentleman ‘n hold doors, pull chairs, all that.”

atsumu’s face drops while he’s in the middle of pulling his socks on. he starts to protest uselessly, growing more panicked with every word that tumbles out of his mouth. “samu, oh my god. she’s gonna look really fuckin’ good, how do i compliment her? what if i start chokin’ when we’re eatin’ and i embarrass myself? i need ya ta talk ta me, i really like her and—”

“tsumu, breathe. no need ta get so damn worked up, it’s jus’ a date. be yerself an’ use yer judgment. ya got it in the bag, don’t sweat it.”

osamu considers that this may be the wrong choice of words, because atsumu groans and pops off the cap of what is probably a stick of deodorant. dejected, his brother mumbles a goodbye and a thanks, not wanting to hang up himself.

“wear a blue tie. send me some pictures, ‘kay? try yer best not ta look like a scrub, dude. good luck with her, yer gonna be fine.”

atsumu is quick to follow his brother’s instructions after applying one too many layers of deodorant. when he’s fully dressed, he takes a mirror photo and sends it to osamu’s cell, then texts you that he’s heading over to pick you up for dinner. he sprays a small amount of cologne and adjusts his too-tight tie before heading out the door, his tummy flipping nervously.

it is only soothed when you open the door with a smile on your face, right after a single knock. atsumu looks as handsome as ever, outfitted in a tantalizing combination of blue and black. his cheeks are a dusty pink, and they only darken when he respectfully tries to take in the beauty of your dress.

he clears his throat, snapping out of his daze, and offers you his arm, a cute though awkward grin splitting across his face. “yer just . . god, yer breathtakin’. so beautiful.”

you laugh as you take his arm, cheeks warming. “you clean up pretty well yourself, atsumu.”

—

“wait, what?” you cackle in disbelief, laughing breathlessly as osamu nods seriously. “no way, he really called you and begged you for your help?”

“yeah, he tore the fuckin’ place up all because he couldn’t make a decision. hey, tsumu, tell her how much ya spent on dry cleanin’.”

atsumu flares indignantly, cheeks burning with a visible glow as he sets down the wine glasses a little harder than he should. “samu, i know we’re gettin’ married, but that was two goddamn years ago. ya didn’t even help me that much, my tie was tangled and—”

you gasp in surprise, recounting the events of your first date. “baby, is that why i had to loosen it for you? it was so tight, i’m surprised you didn’t suffocate and keel over on the way up to my apartment.”

atsumu dramatically turns his head to the side, tipping his nose up in disdain. he did nearly choke himself out with the tie that had been a birthday gift from an msby teammate, but in his defense, he was rushing out the door and had only ever worn ties tied by either his mom or osamu. “maybe if i did, i wouldn’t have’ta sit here while you throw dirt all over my name, samu. and you, babe, yer laughin’ at me.”

osamu pours himself a glass of wine and watches as you console his brother, hugging him tightly. “mm mm, tsumu. i’m only laughing because i think all of the effort you put into that date was sweet. i didn’t look it, but i was almost as nervous as you were.”

eyes gleaming with hopefulness, atsumu softens and looks at you with a small smile. “really? yer not just tryin’ ta apologize for disparagin’ me in front of samu?”

“i promise,” and then you tilt his face toward your own, brushing your lips against his in what is clearly the beginning of a lovey-dovey kiss.

osamu sits back with the wine glass in his hand, then starts to gag and retch loudly when atsumu purposefully kisses you more passionately. “urk! i know yer gettin’ married next month, but everybody else an’ i don’t wanna see all that.”

instead of saying anything, atsumu lets his middle finger speak for the two of you.

inspired by this! haikyuu fluff will always be special to me <3

[venusmotel]

personal trainer!toji x fem!reader « mirror, mirror.🎀 »

୨୧ you were in a relationship with a man who made you feel like nothing. who liked pictures of perfect girls online, and looked at you like a disappointment. you thought maybe if you went to the gym, he’d see you differently. you weren’t ready for toji, your new trainer to see you the way he did.

_____________________ ୨୧ ___________________

cw: NSFW+18 toxic relationship dynamics, emotional abuse from a boyfriend, body image issues, insecurity, instagram comparison culture, soft body praise, gym setting, mirror sex, dirty talk, degradation of ex-boyfriend, possessive praise, cum inside, rough sex, face grabbing, overstimulation, crying during sex, toji worships every inch of reader body, verbal praise & filth, slight manipulation, very explicit smut, brief mention of aftercare

_____________________ ୨୧ ___________________

“you know, maybe if you worked out like her, you wouldn’t look like this.”

your boyfriend voice wasn’t even angry. it was worse—flat. dismissive. the kind of tone people used when talking about a dish they didn’t like at a restaurant. impersonal. cruel in how casual it was.

you stood in the doorway holding the plate of food you’d just made him, steam still rising from the rice, the smell of garlic and butter clinging to your shirt. you hadn’t eaten yet—you were waiting to eat with him. like you always did. stupid.

but he hadn’t even looked up from his phone.

you watched his thumb flick mindlessly across the screen, scrolling through reels, muted videos of women dancing, posing, stretching. your eyes landed on one of them—a girl in a gym bathroom mirror, flexing her abs in a bright green matching set, fake lashes fluttering as she did a full spin to show off her backside. thousands of likes.

your heart twisted.

“i made you dinner,” you said after a long silence, voice soft and tight.

he blinked. didn’t even glance at the plate.

“wasn’t hungry.”

your hands tightened around the dish.

he sighed like you were the problem.

you stepped forward, carefully placing the plate on the table between you. his beer bottle sat next to it, nearly empty. you picked it up and carried it to the sink, just to keep yourself from snapping.

“you haven’t eaten all day,” you said quietly, back turned to him. “you’ll get a headache.”

you heard the smirk in his voice. “don’t worry, you eat enough for both of us.”

your spine stiffened.

he laughed. like it was funny. like he hadn’t just hit every nerve you’d tried to bury all week.

your chest tightened, shame blooming hot across your skin. you looked down at yourself—old t-shirt, your favorite one. soft. comforting. you could feel how it clung to your body. the swell of your stomach where it curved out just slightly. the way your thighs brushed together when you shifted.

too soft. too much. always too much.

you turned around, eyes burning. “you don’t have to say things like that.”

he finally looked up.

“like what? i’m just being honest.” he nodded at the phone screen, showing it to you. another girl. this one bent over in leggings so tight they looked airbrushed on. “look at her. she probably eats clean, lifts heavy. maybe you could take notes.”

your lips parted. the sting of humiliation mixed with a thick, hot ache in your chest.

“that’s what you want, right?” you asked. “someone who looks like that?”

he rolled his eyes, tossing the phone onto the couch. “what i want is for you to stop being so sensitive. jesus. maybe if you actually tried—signed up for a gym or something—you wouldn’t be so fucking insecure all the time.”

you didn’t respond.

but that night, after he fell asleep, you curled up in the bathroom with your phone and signed up for a free trial at the closest gym.

the gym was too bright. too open. mirrors everywhere, glass walls, windows that let in too much light. you could see your reflection in at least five different angles and you hated all of them.

girls passed you in groups or alone, sleek and tight in matching sets. flawless ponytails, winged eyeliner, flat stomachs. bodies that belonged here. they moved like they knew how to use every machine, like they didn’t flinch when someone looked at them. they didn’t tug at their tops or pull their shirts down. they didn’t care who was watching.

your beige leggings clung too tightly around your thighs. you’d bought them months ago but barely worn them. you could feel the soft bulge of your stomach pressing over the waistband, your bra digging into your ribs. everything about you felt wrong.

you pulled your oversized hoodie down to cover as much as you could. your palms were already sweaty.

you just wanted to do a few machines. nothing serious. just… move. be away from him. pretend you weren’t made of all the things he hated.

you were halfway toward the back treadmills when a deep voice stopped you.

“first time?”

you startled.

turned.

and nearly forgot how to speak.

he was… tall. too tall. towering. broad-shouldered and solid. dressed in black gym gear that stretched over thick muscle, his biceps wrapped in veiny cords and a towel draped casually around his neck. his hair was a little messy, like he’d just finished a set and didn’t care to fix it. a scar cut across his lip. dark eyes, sharp and steady, locked on you.

your heart jumped.

you nodded slowly. “uh—yeah. that obvious, huh?”

he gave a one-sided smile. more amused than mocking.

“not really. just recognized the look. lotta people walk in here like the floor’s gonna eat them.”

you gave a breathy laugh. awkward. unsure. his eyes lit up just a little at the sound.

“i’m toji,” he said, offering a hand. “trainer here.”

you took it. his hand was warm, dry, firm. yours felt small and clammy inside it.

“you got a schedule? anyone show you around yet?”

“no, i—I was just gonna… figure it out on my own.”

he cocked his head. “gonna start with squats?”

you blinked. “i—I guess?”

he nodded, already walking toward the racks. you followed like you didn’t have a choice.

“if you don’t start right, you’ll mess up your form for months,” he said, not unkindly. “i’ll show you.”

you nodded, biting your lip.

at the rack, he adjusted the bar for your height, then stepped behind you.

really behind you.

you could feel his presence at your back. taller than you. broader. heat radiating off him in waves.

“feet shoulder-width apart,” he murmured. “good. now, hips back, chest forward. relax your core.”

your stomach tensed automatically.

“nope. don’t suck it in. breathe normal. let your body do the work.”

you exhaled shakily and let go. your hoodie had ridden up an inch, exposing the plush curve of your stomach.

you felt disgusting. exposed. why did i wear these leggings?

and then—his hand.

big. steady. resting just above your waist.

you froze.

“don’t worry,” he said softly, adjusting your posture. “just guiding you.”

he felt it.

the softness. the gentle give of your skin beneath his palm. the way your hips curved into his grip. how your stomach moved when you breathed.

she’s so fucking soft, he thought. not squishy in a bad way. in a real way. warm. perfect. fuck, i haven’t felt this in—

he caught himself.

you were still holding your breath.

“you alright?” he asked, voice lower.

you nodded too fast. “yeah. just… nervous.”

he leaned down a little. his breath brushed your ear.

“you’ve got nothing to be nervous about.”

you didn’t know why, but the way he said it made you want to cry.

you sat alone on the small bench near the dumbbell racks, hoodie bunched up around your waist, cheeks flushed, thighs still trembling slightly from the sets. your water bottle was empty. your back was damp with sweat.

and still, you felt ugly.

your eyes drifted to the girls across the gym. a trio of them by the squat machines—matching outfits, perfect nails, waist trainers cinched so tight they looked like hourglasses sculpted by hand. one was taking a selfie. the others posed behind her, laughing like they hadn’t even worked out. not a single line on their foreheads. their makeup hadn’t moved.

you pulled your hoodie down again.

your phone buzzed beside you. a message from your boyfriend.

don’t overdo it lol. i don’t like when you get all red and sweaty. not cute.

your throat tightened.

what the fuck am i even doing here.

“you’re still thinkin’ too much.”

you jumped.

toji was leaning against the wall beside you, arms crossed over his chest, towel draped around his neck. he must’ve been watching you—maybe this whole time. he didn’t look away when you turned to him. just raised a brow.

“you’re staring at them like you’re not supposed to exist in the same room.”

you looked down. “i wasn’t—”

“you were.”

heat bloomed up your chest.

you let out a breath, small and bitter. “they just look like they belong here.”

“how many of ‘em you think paid to look like that?”

you blinked. looked back at him.

his gaze was hard. unbothered. like he didn’t care if you got offended.

“waist snatched. ass perfectly round. hips tight. you think that shit comes from a dumbbell? nah. that’s surgery.” he uncrossed his arms. “genetics if you’re lucky. but most of it’s fake. i’ve trained a lot of girls. i’ve seen the receipts.”

you swallowed.

“that doesn’t mean they’re not—”

“pretty?” he cut in. “yeah, sure. but they’re not you.”

your breath caught. you didn’t know what to say.

his eyes flicked down your frame. quick, but thorough. you could feel it.

“i’ve seen what fake looks like,” he muttered, almost like to himself. “you got something better.”

your throat went dry.

he straightened, rolling his shoulders. “don’t let that clown you’re dating make you forget that.”

your head whipped up. “how—”

he smirked. “your phone’s not exactly private when your face changes every time it buzzes.”

you froze. cheeks burning. “he’s just—he didn’t mean it like that.”

toji stared at you like you just told him water wasn’t wet.

then, quietly—“yeah. he did.”

he didn’t say it cruelly. he didn’t say anything else.

he just turned and walked away, towel slung back over his neck, veins shifting under his arms as he made his way toward the machines again. like he hadn’t just peeled you open and told you the truth no one else dared to say.

you sat there, heart pounding, hands clutching your bottle.

you could feel his eyes on you before you even reached the squat rack.

your legging clung to your thighs with every step, the soft cotton riding up no matter how many times you tugged them down. your hoodie was too warm, clinging to your damp skin. you were already flushed. already doubting your decision to try and look cute.

and toji had barely said a word since you walked in.

he just looked.

like he was trying to decide something.

his gaze had lingered too long at your waist. then your thighs. then your chest—how the white sports bra hugged and lifted just enough to show the curve of your cleavage when you leaned forward to stretch.

you caught him staring in the mirror.

he didn’t look away.

“ready?” he finally said, voice lower than usual.

you nodded, throat dry. “yeah.”

he followed you to the rack, watching your hips move, your ass sway slightly with each step. he wanted to grip it. press into it. bite it. fuck.

but he kept his hands to himself—for now.

“same stance,” he muttered behind you, already stepping in close. “feet apart. point your toes out a little. yep.”

you adjusted. heart racing.

his hand landed on your hip.

you flinched.

he didn’t move it.

“relax,” he said, voice softer now. more… coaxing.

you swallowed hard.

his palm was wide. warm. calloused. fingers spread over the round curve of your waist like it was his. thumb brushing against the softness above your shorts, resting right where your hoodie had lifted just enough to expose skin.

“tuck your hips under. breathe in. good—now down slow. real slow.”

you bent at the knees. thighs trembling.

the stretch pulled your stomach in, then let it fall again as you sank. your ass curved outward. soft. full. your thighs spread. the motion made your body press back into him. not all the way—but enough.

and he didn’t move.

you whimpered softly. barely audible. but toji heard it.

his breath hitched.

his hand squeezed your hip.

“don’t hold your breath,” he said roughly. “breathe through it.”

you nodded, too dizzy to answer.

you pushed back up.

and this time—you pressed against him fully.

his hips met yours.

hard.

the front of his sweatpants ground into the swell of your ass for just a second. enough to feel the heat. the shape. how solid he was. how hard he was getting.

you let out a tiny, involuntary sound—barely a breath.

“again,” he muttered, voice like gravel now.

you dropped down again. slower.

this time, his hand moved. slid from your waist to your lower stomach. fingers grazing the curve of it. he didn’t grab—not yet—but he traced along it like he needed to feel the way it softened under his touch. his other hand found your inner thigh. adjusted it slightly. skin on skin.

you whimpered again, this time louder.

he leaned down, lips near your ear.

“that’s it,” he murmured. “just like that. you feel that stretch, sweetheart?”

you nodded shakily. couldn’t speak.

his hand lingered on your stomach, thumb rubbing slow circles against the curve you always tried to hide. your breath came out in shudders. your thighs trembled.

“you’re stronger than you think,” he muttered.

god, you were soaked with sweat. not just from the squats. but from the heat of him. the way he was touching you—like no one had ever touched you before. like he saw you. like he wanted you.

“tired?” he asked, a little too close to your neck.

“mm—nnh…” you tried to answer but your voice came out broken. weak.

he smirked.

you pushed back up—one last time.

your ass pressed flush against him again, the soft curve jiggling slightly as your muscles gave out. your legs wobbled, body collapsing forward with a gasp. and that’s when both his hands caught you—one on your belly, one gripping your thigh.

you whimpered again, lower now, more desperate.

“easy,” he muttered, lips near your jaw. “don’t push past your limit.”

you nodded, dizzy.

you could feel his breath against your cheek.

feel the way his thumb still rubbed circles into your stomach like he couldn’t stop.

feel how his hand dipped too low on your thigh. how your shorts rode up higher.

he stayed there. pressed behind you. breathing deep.

you smelled like shampoo, sweat, and something sweeter underneath. even your sweat made his eyes roll back for a second. he didn’t know why. didn’t care.

she’s so soft. so fuckin’ soft.

he had to pull away.

he had to.

but he didn’t. not yet.

he whispered into your ear—

“you did good today.”

and this time, you believed it.

not because you felt strong. but because the way he touched you made you feel like maybe you were worth holding. maybe even craved.

the gym was nearly empty by the time you finished.

you liked it that way—quiet. no more eyes. no more perfect bodies in matching sets. just the hum of machines winding down and the sound of your own breath echoing through the space.

you stood in the locker room, towel wrapped tightly around your body, damp hair clinging to your neck. water still beading down your skin from the quick shower you’d taken—just enough to rinse off the sweat, not long enough to enjoy it.

not freezing. not unbearable. but cold in the way gym tile always was—clinical. empty. distant. every sound echoed. your wet feet made faint slaps on the floor as you walked toward the row of benches, towel wrapped tight around your body. hair still damp. the scent of soap clinging to your skin. your body felt too bare, too exposed, even though you were technically covered.

you dropped your phone on the bench beside you and sat down with a quiet exhale.

you didn’t check your reflection. you didn’t want to see what your body looked like in fluorescent light.

you just wanted a second to breathe.

but your phone buzzed. twice. three times.

you glanced down. saw the notification.

it was your boyfriend.

another comment under another girl’s reel—some fitness influencer with a surgically perfect waist, performing a deadlift in seamless leggings and a sculpted sports bra. she looked like she belonged in a commercial. face made-up, lip gloss catching the gym lights. captioned with some quote about hard work.

he’d commented fire emojis. a drooling face. “jesus.”

you stared at the screen.

something in your chest folded in on itself.

you weren’t surprised. not really. he’d done it before—liked, commented, saved. but this felt different. more obvious. more… mocking.

your towel clung to your thighs, the fabric damp where it touched your skin. your body felt heavier now. all the softness you carried felt like weight someone else had thrown onto you and walked away from. like dead mass. like something he’d never wanted.

you looked down. you could see the edge of your stomach pressing into the towel. you could feel your thighs spreading slightly against the bench.

you felt disgusting.

the first sob came sharp. out of nowhere.

you buried your face in your hands.

and then you heard it.

weights clanking faintly. a low voice muttering under breath. the sound of someone still working out, somewhere just outside the locker room. someone who hadn’t left yet.

you tried to stay quiet. breathed through your nose, rubbed your eyes fast, tried to wipe the shame off your face.

but a second sob broke through. softer. cracked in the middle.

and then—footsteps.

a pause.

a knock.

you didn’t answer.

you weren’t decent. you weren’t presentable. you weren’t okay.

“you alright?”

his voice was quiet. rough.

you swallowed. cleared your throat.

“yeah,” you managed. “fine.”

a pause.

“can i come in?”

you froze.

your heart jumped. your hand gripped the towel tighter.

but before you could say yes—or no—the door creaked open. slow. careful.

you didn’t look up. you stared at your knees, water dripping from your hair onto your collarbone.

he stepped in. the door shut behind him. and then silence again.

until he moved closer.

toji.

his shoes squeaked slightly on the tile. he stopped a few feet away, then sat down beside you on the bench. not too close. not touching. but near enough that you could smell the remnants of sweat on his skin, the faint trace of cologne, the clean cotton of his shirt.

he didn’t speak at first. didn’t ask again.

he just sat. breathing like he’d run a set before coming in. steady. solid.

you stared ahead.

“i know it’s not my business,” he said finally, “but… you sounded like you were breaking.”

your throat tightened.

you wiped your face again.

then you whispered, “i just saw something.”

he didn’t push.

you didn’t stop.

“my boyfriend,” you said quietly. “he commented on this girl’s post. the kind he always watches. flat stomach. tight ass. fake tan. you know the type. she was showing off her body. and he…”

you paused.

“he never comments on mine. never looks at me like that. and i’ve been trying. i come here. i sweat. i push myself. and still—”

your voice cracked. your hand shook where it clutched the towel.

“he still looks at them. like they’re worth something.”

toji didn’t move. didn’t interrupt. just listened. watched your profile out the corner of his eye.

you felt his gaze before he spoke.

“they’re curated,” he said finally. “airbrushed. made for people like him. people who don’t know how to touch something real without breaking it.”

your lips parted slightly.

you felt the weight of his words, but couldn’t look at him yet.

he shifted. closer now.

his hand rested on the bench. between you. his fingers brushed the side of your thigh. not intentional—but not avoided either.

your breath caught.

he noticed.

“can i show you something?” he asked, voice low.

you hesitated.

then nodded.

his hand moved. up—slow. cautious. to the curve of your waist, where the towel had slipped just slightly. he stopped there. didn’t grope. didn’t pull. just pressed his palm against the softness. his thumb dragged along the flesh like he was mapping it.

you flinched slightly.

he paused.

“i’m not gonna touch you if you don’t want it.”

you closed your eyes.

“it’s not that,” you whispered. “i just… i hate how it feels.”

he exhaled. through his nose. controlled.

“i don’t.”

you opened your eyes.

his face was close now. closer than before. his eyes fixed on you—not just your body. your mouth. your expression. your pulse fluttering under your throat.

his hand moved again. higher. over your ribs, the soft swell above your belly button. his palm covered the area like it belonged there.

and then he leaned in.

not to kiss you.

not yet.

just to press his forehead to yours, so lightly you barely felt it.

“you think this is something to be ashamed of?” he whispered.

you didn’t answer.

his hand slid back down—over your belly, your hip, your thigh. slow. reverent.

“this,” he murmured, “is what real feels like. not carved. not starved. not filtered.”

his other hand reached up. thumb wiped another tear from your cheek.

then he kissed you.

not your lips. not yet.

your cheek. once. then lower. under your jaw. near your ear. his breath hit your neck, warm and trembling slightly now. his body was tense. like he was holding back something stronger.

you felt the heat of him between your legs, not even touching yet. just near. his knees spread slightly as he sat beside you, his body leaning in until your shoulder brushed his chest.

and his hand—still on your stomach—was rubbing slow, subtle circles now. not for you. for himself. like he couldn’t stop.

“you’re not too soft,” he whispered, almost angrily. “you’re not too much.”

you trembled.

your towel slipped another inch.

his eyes dropped.

and he groaned softly under his breath.

it wasn’t loud. it wasn’t dirty. not yet. but it was raw—just a sharp pull of air through his teeth, like he’d been punched in the gut with want.

his gaze was locked on the space where your towel had loosened across your thighs. where it dipped low, barely clinging to the swell of your hip. your legs were parted slightly now from the way you’d been sitting. instinct, maybe. exhaustion. defeat. but it made the gap between your thighs more visible. made the soft skin of your upper legs crease and curve naturally, plush and warm-looking under the fluorescent lights.

his hand moved again.

slow.

down your side, from the soft fullness just beneath your chest, tracing that warm belly you hated—so gently you almost didn’t feel it until he grazed the edge of the towel, his knuckles brushing your skin.

you inhaled sharply.

not fear.

but not readiness either.

your breath shuddered.

his hand stilled.

you could feel the heat of his palm against your bare side. warm and rough. not groping, not clutching—just holding. anchoring. like he wanted you to feel that someone was there. someone who wasn’t disgusted by the softness. someone who didn’t recoil from it. someone who craved it.

you glanced up at him.

his expression had changed.

it wasn’t flirty. it wasn’t even lustful in the way you’d feared—it was reverent. like he was looking at something sacred. something he hadn’t touched in a long time.

his thumb traced a path across your hipbone, slow enough to draw goosebumps.

“can i take this off?” he asked, voice low—like it cost him something to say it out loud.

you hesitated. your fingers twitched where they held the towel against your chest.

you were still damp from the shower. still swollen from crying. your face was blotchy. your thighs sticky. your stomach full and soft. your body was in every state you’d been taught was unattractive.

but he hadn’t stopped looking at you like he wanted to worship the parts you always hid.

you nodded.

just once.

his hand moved slowly to the top of the towel. his fingers brushed yours, easing the grip loose. not ripping. not yanking. just… waiting.

and when you let go—he took over.

he peeled it down carefully.

inch by inch.

the cotton slipped over your breasts, baring them to the cold air, then slid lower, over your ribs, your stomach, your hips. he didn’t rush. he didn’t let the fabric fall. he held it—cradled it—as it passed over your body, like he was unwrapping something fragile.

your arms twitched to cover yourself on instinct.

he stopped you—lightly—hands catching your wrists, guiding them down.

“don’t hide,” he said, quiet, almost hoarse. “not from me.”

and when the towel dropped to the bench beside you, he didn’t say anything else.

he just stared.

his eyes moved slowly down your figure, like he couldn’t decide where to look first. your thighs—sprawled slightly, heavy and trembling from the strain of the day. your stomach—soft, warm, rising and falling fast beneath his breath. your chest—bare and vulnerable, nipples hard from the chill, your skin flushed from embarrassment.

he reached out again.

his fingers touched the center of your stomach. not with pressure. just presence.

then they spread. his whole hand flattened across your belly—fingertips stretching over the curve you hated, palm fitting against your skin like it belonged there.

you flinched.

but his other hand found your jaw. guided your face toward his.

“look at me.”

you did.

his fingers traced your ribs, circled your navel, moved downward—slowly—until his hand settled low on your stomach, right where the flesh dipped into the crease above your pelvis.

he exhaled through his nose, thick and shaky.

“you’re fucking perfect like this.”

you blinked hard. “you’re just saying that to make me feel better..”

“no.”

his voice sharpened just enough to silence you.

“you don’t get to argue with me about this. not when you’re sitting here crying, not when your skin’s still damp and warm from the shower, not when you smell like fuckin’ heaven.”

he moved closer. his thigh brushed yours now. his arm curled around your back.

“you don’t get to tell me your body isn’t good enough when it’s the only thing i’ve thought about since the first time you walked in this place.”

you made a small, broken sound in your throat.

his hand moved again—sliding down to your inner thigh, fingers grazing the crease between your legs, right where the skin was softest.

you spread your legs just slightly. barely enough for him to notice. but he noticed.

he leaned in.

his lips brushed your jaw first. then lower. down your neck. not kissing yet—just breathing you in. letting his mouth hover close enough to warm your skin.

his other hand moved again, fingers finding the underside of your breast. lifting it slightly. brushing his knuckles beneath it like he wanted to memorize how it fit in his palm.

you whimpered.

he kissed your shoulder. slow. reverent. then kissed it again, lower this time, near your collarbone.

“tell me to stop,” he whispered.

you didn’t.

his lips grazed your nipple next, tongue flicking against it softly—testing, tasting, not rushing.

you gasped. your back arched slightly.

his arms caught you.

“just let me touch you.”

his voice was deeper now. breathless.

“let me show you what it feels like to be wanted.”

his thigh slid between yours, spreading your legs wider.

you rolled your hips forward without thinking—just chasing pressure, contact, anything.

his hand caught your ass, squeezed. his lips found your throat again.

your body, the body you’d hated in silence, was pressed against his—raw and bare and trembling.

and he was holding it like it was something holy.

the air shifted.

your skin was burning.

he was looking at you like no one ever had, like he wanted to eat you alive and worship every inch at the same time, and for a second you let yourself believe it.

until your own mind caught up.

you flinched—again.

and this time, you reached for the towel.

toji froze.

your hand grasped the damp cotton and dragged it back over your chest, across your stomach, down your thighs, fumbling, not even securing it properly—just needing something between your body and his eyes.

“i can’t,” you said, voice breaking. “please, i—I can’t.”

his brows knit, breath still heavy. his arms pulled back just enough to give you space, but not enough to leave.

“what happened?”

you looked away, face flushing. you couldn’t look at his body—not like this. not with yours exposed, messy, ruined. his chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, damp with sweat, veins prominent beneath tanned skin. broad pecs. thick biceps, still swollen from his last set. narrow waist. thighs thick and solid, resting open, bulge still outlined under his gym pants.

he looked like a man carved out of instinct. out of use. out of need.

and you—were everything he wasn’t.

your voice cracked again. “you’re so—fuck, you’re so attractive. i mean, look at you.”

your eyes moved to his arms, his shoulders. “you’re perfect. your so handsome and every girl in this place would kill to get fucked by you. and me? i’m sitting here crying with stretch marks and thick thighs and a stomach that rolls when i bend over—”

your chest clenched. “you’re probably just fucking with me. or pitying me.”

he didn’t move.

didn’t even blink.

his jaw clenched, that scar above his lip pulling slightly.

“you think i’d waste my time pitying someone i can’t stop staring at?” he said, low. steady. “you think i’d touch you like that if it didn’t mean anything?”

you didn’t answer.

his voice dropped.

“you think i don’t see you? every time you walk into the gym, wearing that hoodie like it’s armor, hiding under layers, tugging your shirt down when you think no one’s watching—”

he leaned in again.

“i see all of it. and it drives me fucking insane.”

your breath stuttered.

“you want to talk about stretch marks?” he said, hand sliding under the towel again, finding your waist, your hip. he dragged his fingers over the lines there. “these? these aren’t flaws. they’re just… fucking real. proof you exist. proof you live in that body, not some rented one off a screen.”

he moved closer. his breath hit your face.

“i’d rather fuck a real woman than jerk off to a filter.”

your heart kicked.

his hand found the edge of the towel again. this time he didn’t rip it off—he just let it open slightly under his palm, fingers pressing against your belly. the contrast was too much—his hand hard and dry, your skin soft and warm.

his voice cracked just slightly.

“you think this doesn’t affect me?” he said, glancing down at the bulge straining in his pants. “i’ve been hard since i felt that softness into the squat rack this morning.”

you blinked.

he leaned in. close enough for your lips to brush.

“you don’t know what it’s doing to me… how soft you are… how you feel against me. fuck—”

you whimpered.

and then you kissed him.

hard.

not gentle. not pretty.

you were still crying. your cheeks were wet. your hands shook.

but your lips crashed into his with a desperation that made him growl low in his throat. his mouth opened against yours, tongue meeting yours, deep and messy, not searching—taking.

he kissed like he was starving.

his hands gripped your sides now, rougher, dragging you closer. your chest pressed into his, soft curves smashing against solid muscle. you felt the sweat still clinging to his shirt, to his neck. you smelled it—salt and musk and something earthy beneath. he hadn’t cleaned up yet. he hadn’t wiped himself down. and it made you dizzy.

you moaned into his mouth. helpless. shocked by how good it tasted.

he groaned back. grabbed your thighs.

his bulge ground against your hip now, slow and firm, impossible to ignore.

you gasped.

his voice broke against your lips. “feel that?”

you nodded.

“that’s what you do to me.”

his teeth grazed your bottom lip. his hands were everywhere now—cupping your ass through the towel, gripping your waist, fingers digging into the back of your thigh to pull you across his lap. and when you straddled him fully, thighs spreading across his thick legs, towel slipping from your body again—

his cock twitched underneath you. thick. hot. trapped beneath layers of fabric and pulsing like it hurt.

you rolled your hips once—just once—and the growl he let out made you clench around nothing.

your bodies didn’t match in shape, in tone, in anything. but pressed together like this, it didn’t matter. his was hard. yours was soft. and the combination felt like friction—like balance. like tension and collapse all at once.

your breath hitched.

his mouth found your throat again.

“you’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me,” he whispered, teeth grazing skin.

and this time, you believed it.

his hands were on your ass.

gripping. kneading. pulling you tighter against his lap like you belonged there. like he was trying to fuse your softness into the solid heat of his cock still straining under his sweats.

you were straddling him fully now—towel forgotten on the floor, your thighs slick with sweat and heat, your body trembling every time you rocked your hips down. the thick shape of his cock pressed perfectly between your folds, the pressure obscene even through the layers of fabric.

you could feel every ridge.

every pulse.

he was so hard it hurt to grind.

and still—you couldn’t stop.

“fuck,” he groaned into your shoulder, voice ragged, hands gripping tighter as you moved again. “you’re gonna make me lose my fucking mind.”

you whimpered against his neck, nails digging into his biceps.

your body—soft, flushed, soaked—rubbed against his with every movement. your stomach against his abs. your tits against his chest. your thighs spreading further as he adjusted his legs beneath you.

you felt his teeth drag against your skin. not biting—just marking. like he needed a reminder that you were real. that this was happening.

and then—he stood.

just stood up with you still wrapped around his waist, your legs locking instinctively around him, your arms around his neck.

you gasped.

he carried you two steps across the locker room—toward the full-length mirror mounted on the wall near the lockers. harsh gym lighting still flickering overhead, sweat still clinging to both of you.

“look.”

his voice snapped.

you opened your eyes.

he was holding you in front of the mirror. one arm under your thighs. the other gripping your lower back. your body on full display—hair messy, skin flushed, nipples hard, stretch marks glowing like ribbons across your hips and ass.

he looked massive behind you. towering. his shirt soaked through with sweat. chest heaving. jaw clenched. cock still caged behind his waistband—but twitching now. ready. angry.

he growled into your ear.

“look what he’s missing.”

your throat tightened. your breath broke in your chest.

“this is what he gave up? this?” he shoved his hips up into yours, grinding his bulge against your cunt with slow, punishing pressure. “this body? this heat?”

you moaned—choked and soft and real.

“he treated you like trash,” toji spat, voice trembling with heat. “like you weren’t worth touching. worth fucking.”

you whined, burying your face in his neck.

he gripped your hair. pulled your face back toward the mirror.

“don’t hide. look at yourself. look at what i’m about to fuck.”

you stared.

your reflection was unrecognizable. desperate. undone. lips swollen, eyes glassy, thighs trembling from being held like this. your body clung to him like gravity.

and his expression—god.

his mouth was parted. his teeth clenched. his eyes locked on the way your thighs spread around his hips.

“you see that?” he whispered. “how soft you are? how good you look against me?”

his cock twitched again.

and then he finally yanked his sweats down—one rough pull, fabric hitting the floor.

his cock slapped against his abdomen. thick. veiny. flushed. already dripping precum. you could feel the heat of it before he even touched you with it.

he spit in his hand. stroked his cock once, twice, then lined it up under you.

your breath stopped.

“toji—”

“nah. not running now.”

and then he thrust up.

hard.

you cried out—full-body, involuntary. his cock stretched you wide, deeper than you thought possible, the first push already too much.

your hands clawed at his shoulders. your forehead dropped against his.

“fuck, toji—i can’t—! it’s so big.”

“yes you can,” he growled, teeth gritted. “you’re fuckin’ taking it.”

he slid in again. deeper. harder. your cunt sucked him in, clenching from the pressure. your walls fluttered, your thighs shaking.

“look how tight you are,” he hissed, hips dragging back before slamming up again. “like you’ve never been fucked right before.”

you sobbed.

your body trembled from the force of every thrust. his hands gripped your waist like a man possessed, his abs flexing, sweat slick between your bodies.

“you feel that?” he panted, breath hot against your neck. “this cock was made for you. made for this body.”

you were already shaking.

your nails dug into his shoulders, your hips struggling to keep up with the force of each thrust. you were perched on his lap, thighs spread wide, legs dangling just barely past the edge of the bench, and he was deep inside you—buried to the base, stretching you around a cock that felt too thick, too hot, too much.

your body had stopped trying to fight it. now, it just clung to him.

but your mind—

“i’m not—i’m not even pretty—”

the words slipped out before you could stop them.

and then he slammed into you.

so hard your body bounced. so deep you choked on a sob.

“say that shit again,” he snarled through gritted teeth, voice rough and ragged. “say it again and i’ll fuck you harder. say it while your pussy’s clenching for me like it can’t stand the thought of being empty.”

your breath caught. your head dropped against his shoulder.

“toji—i’m gonna—i can’t—fuck—”

he groaned, deep and guttural, when he felt it—your cunt choking him, fluttering around his cock as your orgasm overtook you. not a neat little finish. no. it ripped through you like your body was cracking open from the inside.

you sobbed.

loud. broken.

your nails raked down his back. your thighs locked up. your entire body jerked forward, curling into him, needing to hide—but he wouldn’t let you. his hand was in your hair, his other around your waist, keeping your body pinned to his cock as you spasmed.

“that’s it,” he hissed into your skin, still thrusting up into you like he was losing his mind. “cum on it. soak it. make it yours.”

you moaned through the aftershocks, breath catching every time he slammed up again. your thighs trembled around his waist, sweat dripping between your bodies. your whole body burned. overstimulated. stretched. used.

and he still wasn’t done.

he was fucking you through it—through the trembling, the sensitivity, the moans that turned to hiccupped gasps.

he adjusted his grip. angled his hips deeper. your eyes rolled back.

“you’re so deep, fuck,” you cried, barely able to speak. “i can’t—I can’t—”

“yes you fuckin’ can,” he growled, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your chest. “this pussy was made to take it.”

he thrust again. rougher. more desperate.

the sounds in the room were obscene—wet, slick, filthy, the bench creaking under the weight of your bodies. your slick dripped down his cock, pooling at the base, coating his thighs and his abs and everything between.

his voice dipped, darker now. “that piece of shit ever make you cum like this?”

you shook your head frantically, too overwhelmed to lie.

he grabbed your jaw.

hard.

forced your eyes to meet his in the mirror.

“say it.”

“no—he never—!”

“damn right he didn’t,” he spat. “he didn’t even deserve to look at you.”

he shifted again, angled upward—his cock dragging perfectly against that spot inside you that made your mouth fall open in a silent scream.

his thrusts got shorter. sharper. his chest pressing to yours, abs flexing every time he ground into you.

“you’re not too much,” he whispered, almost angrily.

his breath was loud in your ear. ragged. falling apart.

“you’re exactly how i like it.” he muttered, voice low, guttural.

his palm moved lower—across your belly, down to the dip of your waist, the curve of your thigh. he groaned when you clenched around him.

“feels so fuckin’ good around my muscles,” he breathed. “you’re like a soft pillow against all this hard tension. makes me wanna stay buried in you for hours.”

he squeezed your thigh, pressed it higher against his hip, and gave one slow, deliberate thrust so deep your breath caught.

“you fit me too good. it’s not just sex—it’s like your body’s made to give me relief.”

“you belong right here. on me,” he said, voice tight. “fuckin’ made for me.”

“toji—please—fuck—”

“you want it?”

“yes—god, yes—”

he groaned, loud now. feral.

and then he slammed into you one last time—bottoming out, cock buried to the hilt, the head punching so deep it knocked the air from your lungs.

you cried out. mouth open. arms clinging to him like you’d fall apart if he let go.

his cock twitched inside you.

and then—you felt it.

thick, hot pulses. his release. deep, raw, possessive.

you could feel his cum fill you. every pulse marked you. every throb claimed you. his body didn’t move. he just held you there, shoved onto his cock like he couldn’t stand to be anywhere else.

he stayed buried as you spasmed again, another wave rippling through you from the sheer heat and stretch of it.

he groaned into your neck. thrust again. shallow. slow. dragging his cock through the mess inside you like he wanted to paint your walls with it.

you collapsed forward, trembling in his arms. face pressed to his neck.

he was drenched. his body soaked. he smelled like sex and sweat and something animal.

his arms wrapped around you, tight.

one hand rubbed your back. the other cupped your ass, pulling your thighs wider, still seated on his cock.

you whimpered.

his palm found your stomach again. the soft part. the part you always covered.

he squeezed it. kissed your temple.

“this is mine now,” he whispered.

you nodded. dazed. silent.

he kissed your shoulder. then your jaw.

his mouth brushed your ear.

and he whispered, low and dangerous—

“next time, i’m fucking you in front of him.”

_____________________ ୨୧ ___________________

thank you for reading this. i hope you enjoy it💌

venusmotel💌

[bloomiize]

perv/gooner!jake is gross and he's gotten even worse

READ PART ONE HERE (not needed but it adds context)

perv!jake finally asks for your instagram when you're paired up for a project. It’s not like he doesn’t already know it by heart. Not like he hasn’t jerked off to every single one of your posts. Not like he wasn’t drooling over that innocent little selfie you posted last night. He just wants you to know he exists now. And you happily exchange Instagrams with him like it’s nothing.

perv!jake tells his roommate everything. He asks for advice on how to get closer to you, more specifically, how he could get his dick wet.

"She sounds hot. If you ever wanna recreate that hentai scene, let me know." Jake and his roommate have always joked around about sex, but this time it felt real. Too real. His dick is already begging to be touched at the thought of fucking you, he doesn't mind if he isn't the only one.

perv!jake made an effort to get to know you. Your favourite colour, the way you like your coffee, the songs you hum when you're zoning out. He also knows how you always tug your skirt down when you think it’s ridden up too high, not high enough in his opinion. How you're so naive to just bend over without thinking, right in front of him. He knows you prefer lacy panties over thongs, soft and girly, the kind he imagines peeling off you with his teeth. He’s memorized you. Every inch. Every habit. Every sound you make.

perv!jake likes how close you two are now. You always invite him over to study, to work on the project like good classmates. And yeah, maybe he’s looked through your drawers when you’re in the kitchen. Maybe he’s taken a not-so-innocent glance at your laundry basket, eyes locked on the crumpled pair of panties sitting right on top.

He’s thought about it.

Pocketing a bra, a pair of panties, hell—even a sock. Just something. Anything that smells like you. Feels like you. Something he can wrap around his fist while he jerks off to the thought of your soft little voice saying his name.

It’s disgusting. He knows that. Still doesn’t stop him.

perv!jake can never make it halfway through the door without his dick twitching. Can you really blame him, though? You’re always wearing a tiny tank top, no bra, and he can see everything. Your shorts, if you can even call them that, barely cover your ass, riding up with every step you take. Jake nearly cums in his pants right then and there.

perv!jake helps you solve a complicated problem, and you light up like he’s the smartest boy in the world. As a sign of your appreciation, you hug him, tight, soft, your tits pressing right up against his chest like it's nothing.

And he moans.

Quiet. Slips out before he can even think. You don’t seem to notice. You just keep smiling, thanking him like you can't feel something hard pressed against you. His dick’s already leaking, he can feel it.

He clears his throat, cheeks red. “I- uh, I’m not really feeling the best. I think I’m gonna head out early.”

You pout, sweet and worried, and offer to get him some water, maybe let him lie down, hoping he'll stay a bit longer. But he’s already opening the door.

Because he needs to get home. Now. He’s seconds from cumming in his pants, and he knows once he’s alone he’s gonna jerk it to the feeling of your tits against him—again and again until he’s lightheaded and shaking.

gooner!jake cant stop thinking about you, or more specifically, your tits. Its hard not to when they're so perfect. Soft, warm, and pushed against him when you hugged. He swears you did it on purpose, not that he minds. He can't stop fucking the panties he took from your apartment a few days ago when you had him over, surely you didn't notice they went missing. They're dirty and sticky from his fluids but he can't stop, he wont stop. Jake's not proud of it but this is the closest he's getting to fucking your perfect pussy.

gooner!jake got a call from you in the middle of edging himself for the third time tonight.

"Hey! Did you make it home okay? You left in a hurry and you said you weren't feeling well..." Your voice rings through his head. He's gripping his dick tighter now, still moving his hand up and down. He can't just cum immediently to the sound of your voice, that would be so embarrassing. He has to last longer for you.

"Y-yeah I made it home fine. T-thanks" Jake's holding back moans. It's disgusting how even when he's on the phone he won't stop. He cock is throbbing in agony, he's been edging himself non stop and he so desperately wants to cum, to feel you, to fill you up.

"You don't sound sound okay Jakey, you should've just stayed. I would've taken care of you." You say it so innocently that Jake loses it. He lets out a groan and thrusts his hips violently into his hand. Jake knows your panties are ruined by him but it doesn't stop him from shoving it into his mouth, pretending he's tasting your sweet cunt against his dirty tongue

How could you just say that so casually? Calling him Jakey? Saying you would've taken care of him?

You have no idea what you do to him.

"f-f-fuck y/n. I want you so fucking b-bad." It slips out of Jake's mouth before he realizes it.

"Walking around with those t-tiny shorts. I should've just be-bent you over." His brain is practically gone at this point, all he cares about is cumming. His eyes are rolling to the back of his head while his hand moves furiously. He's moaning loudly enough that you could hear him through the phone. He doesn't care anymore; he wants to be gross for you, if you'd let him.

"I'm go-gonna cum, fu-fuck!" His hips sputtered into his fist and thick, hot ropes of cum sprayed all over his phone. He's oversentive from edging himself nonstop, brain completely empty and dick still hard.

gooner!jake realizes that you were still on the phone, you didn't hang up. Before he can apologize, your small voice comes out,

a whimper.

Are you... are you touching yourself to him right now?

from bloomiize: tysm for reading the first part!! I honestly wasn’t expecting anyone to ask for a part 2, let alone enjoy my writing 😭 I was super nervous posting >< but your support means everything!! lmk if you wanna be added to the taglist for part 3 !!

taglist (OMG I HAVE A TAGLIST?!?! if you commented on part 1 I tagged you, lmk if you wanna be removed! ^^)

@femmefqtqle @seobinghard @maysshade @dark-moon-light02 @jjongsies @nikismyprincesses @iaaespa @heeseungsbm @shy9-29

[biggerb0at]

Also if you do go to the blogs they are all the same its nothings there but the scam

Its all the same pictures used the same looks the same background all AI one used an obvious video ai cause seriously the inside of their house wouldnt look like that and you would not have a perfect after video following the same trail and remember when even staff talked about it yeah its likely because they can see where its from and it is not near gaza

Honestly ask yourself two questions

1) how would i ask for help in a situation like that and RESPOND TO PEOPLE( still havent gotten any reply back when i ask them unlike the real pleads for help posts on here) l you know the legit pleas on here and they all respond differently

2 how would I exploit people during this, cause scamming is real easy to do ive gotten scammed by an ex mutual on here they were pretty convincing because they did act like a normal blog here, but now your aim is to bot you cant like a normal tumblr blog only respond to someone that claim a easy to fucking pass vetting system yes its that fucking easy to get vetted and just make a few scripts and boom everyone in the search bar gets asked

Also some additional thinking

Remember tumblr has a huge bot problem and how the bots behaved

Honestly the biggest flag is how little there is to their blog like im following someone that still asking for help and guess what they reblog it they update they answer and if they ask for help they dont make it sound corpo bot of “i hope you’re doing well” THATS A EMAIL OPENER CHATGPT GIVES OUT.

But most importantly if you want to help people there are charities out there sending help to gaza which is kinda sad you dont see them anymore since the bots took over.

I miss when I would get Tumblr asks that actually said things and weren't just digital panhandling scams.

[jordiemeow]

this is how art apologize

sorry i need him so bad i may have gotten carried away when i was bored at work this wasnt supposed to b anything. Whoops

warnings: 18+, smut, f!receiving oral, eating out over underwear, stupid stupid art

Oh. You're mad.

Like, actually mad, not just giving him that look you always send him after he does something mildly irritating just to see your pretty face contort in faux-annoyance. No, you aren't even giving him that exasperated look. It's like he's talking to a brick wall. He's pretty sure clay would be more receptive than this, actually.

His smile drops.

"Babe?" He tries again, hands clasping together in front of him, clammy with sweat following the silence that greeted him upon entering your dorm. His joke about you disappearing before you could congratulate him for winning his match fell entirely flat, apparently. He looks like a scorned dog; tail between his legs and ears down, though he's not entirely sure what for.

You hardly spare him a glance, more focused on the Macbook on your stomach as you lay on your bed. Art swallows, moving towards your bed tentatively. It takes him a moment of watching you to work up the courage to actually take a seat, gingerly lowering himself to the edge of your single. Normally you jump his bones after such a crushing victory. Or after a shower, but you aren't turned on in the slightest by the scent of his shampoo. In fact, his presence is quite bothersome.

Why?

That's the question that's been bouncing around in his head since watching you clear out of the stands before his customary victory kiss. He had been happy enough to let your absence slide—or, well, too desperate for your praise to truly be upset over it. But now you're just blanking him, so there's clearly something wrong...

"What's the matter?" He coaxes, one big hand wrapping gently around your ankle. His hand is cold against your warm skin, and you barely bite back a shiver.

A long silence follows, and then, "You played so well, Artie!" He flinches at the high-pitched mocking tone of your voice. And then finally, finally, it dawns on him.

You're mad about the girl that congratulated him first. Some freshman sitting front row with her friends, gushing over the way his hair bounced each time he moved. Hell, you'd even heard them make a comment about how erotic his grunts were. Oh, the poor girl had no idea what other sounds he could make...

But that's not the problem. She can look all she wants, as far as you're concerned. It's just that your boyfriend is the biggest idiot in the world and doesn't know how to shut down someone who is clearly flirting with him. He's all smiles and friendly arm pats, as if you weren't about to clamber down the seats and jump onto his arms on the side of the court. Completely oblivious to the way her hand was wrapped around his sweaty bicep in a decidedly not platonic way, batting her lashes up on him as she praised his forehand. As if she has any fucking idea what she's talking about.

Yeah, no. You weren't sticking around to watch it, and now he's getting the silent treatment. Very mature.

There's another silence, his thumb rubbing against the jut of your ankle. You're both frowning, and the quiet feels stifling. You're about to tell him to go away to let you cool off when movement catches your eye: Art ducking his head, lips pressing chastely to the skin next to his hand. You tilt your Macbook an inch to the side to watch the way he leaves a lingering kiss there. His eyes flit up to search yours for protest, but you're already looking back at your screen, the sound of your fingers clicking against the keyboard filling your dorm.

He takes that as consent to continue. More light kisses placed against your ankle, your shin...

"I love you," he whispers against your skin, as if that erases the frustration of seeing him beam down at that pretty little blonde girl with the tight-fitting shirt. How desperate can you be?

"More than anything," he adds. He's aware he's talking to himself at this point, but he's okay with that. His mouth continues its path upwards, circling your knees, working his way up your thighs, easing your skirt up...

He takes his time here. Lavishing your inner thighs with attention, enough to draw a soft little sigh of content from you. You're still typing away at the Macbook balanced on your stomach; you both know what's happening here. It's time for him to earn forgiveness for that little display.

"So pretty, baby. M'sorry," he murmurs against you. Soft little praises whispered as if he wants them absorbed into your skin. Maybe that way you'll actually talk to him. A real conversation, not just mocking some girl. "Gorgeous. Most pretty girl in the world."

You won't admit it, but you're loosening up under his ministrations. Legs parting a little more readily, breath quickening as your panties dampen more with each kiss. "Love every part of you. But your thighs are so pretty," he tells you, tongue laving over the soft bite he'd just placed to the apex of your left thigh.

"I'm sorry."

It's only when his fingers hook under your lacy panties to tug them down that you speak up. "Don't."

You feel him exhale heavily against your thigh, and his hands move to splay flat against your hips. "Gotta earn it," you add. He'd be embarrassed by the way his cock twitches in his fresh boxers at that if it weren't for the fact he was used to this sort of treatment.

And so, without hesitation, his mouth descends on your clothed cunt. Lapping and sucking eagerly at the material, as if trying to draw out any taste of your sweet juices coating the other side of them. The way he's moaning into you is downright pathetic, fingers curling into your sides. Your panties grow slick with a mix of your own arousal and Art's saliva—borderline translucent, but he's too devoted to his task to really notice that.

He can hardly breathe with the way he's pressed into the cotton, trying desperately to prove himself to you. "S'only you, babe. All I want," he whines into the fabric.

You roll your eyes. "Doesn't feel like that when you're chatting up girls after your games, Art."

"Wasn't—" He insists, pausing to refocus on his task. It's only when he needs a breather that he lifts up just enough to speak again. "M'sorry. Wanted to see you, but she stopped me—"

"Should have ignored her."

"But—"

"Are you really in a position to be talking back to me right now?"

He swallows. "No. I'm sorry."

"Good. Put your mouth to better use."

"Then can I—?"

"I said put it to use, Art."

Well, that's not a no, is it? You don't stop him when he reaches for your panties again, tugging them down your legs just enough to be able to dive right in. He buries himself back into your sweet little cunt, and he groans with satisfaction at the way he can taste you without the boundary in place.

His voice is practically a whimper when he speaks against you. "Tastes so good—"

"Art," you warn. He doesn't waste his breath on an apology, just nods mutely and gives your pussy his undivided attention. Tongue licking flat stripes against you, nose nudging against your swollen clit.

It takes a herculean effort not to reward him with those sweet little moans he's used to. He knows he doesn't deserve it right now, though, and the fact you're even letting him do this is a miracle in itself. He's gone days without you so much as letting him kiss you when you're really annoyed at him.

He won't take this for granted.

You're almost annoyed at how good he is at it. He's supposed to be earning your forgiveness, sure, but it's hard to think about anything except the way his cheeks are hollowed out as he sucks eagerly on your clit. Each little sound drawn involuntarily out of you is a victory in itself for him.

You try to last out, you really do, but your climax is inevitable when he's whining pathetically against you and trying his hardest to please you. Despite your insistence on him not speaking, the occasional plea is moaned into you, and the sheer desperation behind it eventually sends you over the edge.

"Please. Please, wanna make you cum, baby, please, I'm sorry—"

Your thighs clench around his head, fingers stilled against your keyboard. Your head tips back into the pillow, and you don't bother stifling your moan of pleasure as you come undone against his face.

"Nghhh— Art, ah, ffffuck—"

You can't even be mad when you can feel him smile faintly against your cunt before he redoubles his efforts to work you through it. Moaning and eagerly lapping up his reward. He doesn't stop until your thighs are trembling and you're reaching down to push his head away.

His head pops up above the screen of your laptop, chin slick with your release and lips spit-swollen. "I'm sorry, did I—" He starts, panting softly. "Did I do good? Did I make you feel better? Baby, I shouldn't have—"

"Art," you interject, finally setting your laptop aside and propping yourself up on your elbows. He expects some sort of approval here, maybe a kiss and a long overdue congratulations for his earlier win. But you fix him with a hard look. "Don't ever do that again."

He nods, a bit too quickly. "I won't. I'll come to you first. Swear."

You study him for a long moment. Earnest expression, pleading blue eyes as his hands brace on your thighs. Finally, you give him a short little nod. "Okay. Come here."

You shift forward a little, arms wrapping around him. He practically collapses into you with relief, chin hooked over your shoulder as his own arms circle you. It's only then that he finally sees your Macbook screen open on a document filled with several lines of:

sjwkdkeswid wejjdewijjddk ewjdskwaowidfjkdskw iwanjskjdfkdf

He decides not to comment on it. You've already just forgiven him, after all, so he smothers his smile into your shoulder and makes a mental note about not talking to anyone but you and his coach right after his games.

Though, in all fairness, he gets to eat you out either way. A win is a win.

—

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[uzumaki-rebellion]

People saying Annie gave off Auntie vibes is a problem. Praising white ass Mary as the sexy one and Annie as some non-sexual mammy figure is anti-Black, full of misogynoir, and the reason why you won't see me doing ANY Mary/Stack fics. Cuz what the fuck do you mean Annie isn't as gorgeous, sexy, and deserving of praise and erotic moments as the basic white girl character who Stack didn't even want for real? This is why we gotta stop letting every outsider to the cookout. Unambiguous, thick sexy Black women will always be pushed aside for whiteness. We saw it in the promo run, and we see it now with the discussions. Smh. Mary gets a sexy poster with Stack, but Annie only gets one by herself without Smoke? Fuck no. Can't blame it all on the marketing department. Ryan and Mike got pull now. We gotta do better in promoting and recognizing the beauty of Black women who don't fit white supremacist beauty standards.