#anyway. send tweet.

[24-05txt]

Soap comes to and he's already walking. This on its own isn't entirely surprising because it's not the first time this has happened. There's just never enough time in the day. He finishes one thing, and then it's right onto the next; steadily marching from one task to another. When most of his life is spent walking, he learns to tune it out. Mental space better wasted on something else.

Present again in his own mind, he takes time for a perfunctory sit-rep. The skies are mostly clear, sparse clouds, and the forest around him is lush with foreign vegetation. He's traveling light, just basic gear and his firearm, a—

... hold on, he doesn't have a firearm. Scratch that, he doesn't have arms.

Soap stumbles, suddenly dizzy, and promptly trips over himself in a heap of new limbs, leaving his field of vision blocked by a wall of blue-grey that he has the horrifying realization is attached to him.

"What the fuck?" He starts, trying and failing to move his fingers or toes. "What the fuck?!"

He's echoed by Gaz somewhere behind and above him, a slightly higher-pitched "What the fuck?" And then, "Captain?!"

"Gaz?" Soap (lacking fingers or toes) wiggles a set of limbs, expecting arms and instead finds that he's stiltedly unfolding a set of wings he'd tangled himself in. He has wings. "Steaming fucking christ."

"Is that a fucking pegasus?" Asks Price, sounding far too calm for the situation at hand. It's quickly remedied when he adds, "Is that a unico—Fuck! What the fuck!" And, honestly, if the Captain is panicking then it's a very bad day indeed.

What seems like hours of shouting, swearing, and flailing pass in a slightly less than hysterical blur for all three of them before they're able to calm enough to take stock of the situation (beyond the well established fact that they all appear to be horses of some variation.)

"Why's Gaz the unicorn?" Soap asks, trying his damndest to distract himself from the very real stress of having two more legs and a total of four new limbs he's not used to. "That's Scotland's national animal, the fuck is a pegasus good for? It should have been me."

"Soap, Jesus Christ, Fuck off." Gaz doesn't look over at him, focused solely on his hooves, trying to stay upright without swaying. His fur (is it fur or hair on a horse? Soap never cared much for horses) is a deep violet, darkest along his spine, but his chest, belly, and legs below the knees are solid white. (Are those the knees? Or are those the ankles? Fuck, if he'd known this was in his future he'd've had a horse phase.) He is also, to Soap's irritation, a unicorn; the horn is the same color as his fur, and he has a little beard that matches his mane and tail, both tight and coily like his human hair.

"Don't think so hard about it," he advises, swallowing his own nausea from making the same mistake. Hypocrite, he is. Actually, he remembers hearing somewhere that horses can't vomit, and wonders dizzily if that applies to pegasi as well. "The movin', I mean. Y'ken what to do if you let your body do it."

"Muscle memory?" Gaz asks, incredulous and still a little hysterical. "How can I have fucking muscle memory when the body is brand new?"

Soap shrugs, then becomes hyper-aware of the fact that horses cannot shrug, despite the fact he just did, and is thrust head-long into another fit of nausea.

"Think am gonna boak."

"No, you're not," says Price, with all the authority of his station. (If your Captain says you're not going to throw up, then by God you better keep a lid on it.) "He's right, though. It's best not to think too hard about how to move, just move and keep your head screwed on while you do it." Despite the surety of his tone, Soap can hear him huffing out every breath through his nose, almost snorting.

"Sir," he and Gaz acknowledge at the same time, and Soap even goes so far as to straighten his posture—solidly not thinking about what muscle groups he has to engage to do it. Just straighten up (and fly right—oh god.)

Soap doesn't know where to rest his gaze. Down, and he sees his hooves (upsetting), up and he sees Gaz and his Captain (also upsetting), too far up and he's just looking through the trees at a picturesque sky (not upsetting, but less than helpful).

"I'm gonna," he starts, then quickly falters, still lokking at the sky and unsure of what, exactly, he's gonna do. (Not vomit, that's for sure.) "Gonna... walk. Around. I'm gonna walk a perimeter." He sounds a little more steady as he realizes that's exactly the thing he needs right now—he needs to be alone for a moment, needs a minute to actually get his shit straight without being distracted by his teammates doing the same.

"Sergeant..." Price's warning tone is slightly strained, and though Soap is watching wind blow through the leaves, he doesn't hear any movement from the Captain's direction.

"I'm not an idiot, Captain, I won't be goin' far. Just need some air Gaz hasn't breathed first."

"Hey." The protest is weak, made more for a sense of routine than any real offense.

Soap obediently waits until he has the reluctant go-ahead from his Captain before he ducks off the beaten path and into the surrounding woodland.

It's easier to look around here, without the risk of catching a glance of some major discrepancy that'll make his stomach turn. He goes far enough that he can only catch glimpses of Gaz's purple coat through the trees before he turns and starts his perimeter.

It's slow-going. He’s trying to get used to looking down and seeing hooves instead of feet, and most his success comes from cataloging them like they belong to someone else, and not him. He notices they're cloven, like a cow's, and a blue so dark it's almost black. Further up, toward what he's decided to call his knees, his fur lightens to a mottled cerulean. Beyond that he's unsure—those observations had to be made in furtive glances because if he looked too long, he'd notice himself walking, and if he noticed himself walking he'd be sent stumbling and cursing into the underbrush.

He's able to notice other things about himself with detached curiosity; he doesn't have a horse's tail, and instead has large, wide tailfeathers, like a bird. When at rest, his wings settle snuggly against his sides, but if he properly relaxes them they droop toward the ground (this was another event that sent him stumbling into the underbrush. Moving naturally was one thing, but trying to single out a single set of limbs he hadn't been born with made him forget about his legs for a moment. The front set. Forelegs?)

Completing half his circuit finds him back on the dirt path, this time behind the Captain and Gaz, speaking in low tones as they put their heads together. Price's coat is a sort of green he doesn't quite know the name of, like the grass turf of a golf course after a bit of rain so there's some mud around the edges of everything. Like Gaz, his legs up to the knees are white, although he also has a diamond-shaped splotch over his shoulderblades. Lucky bastard seemed to be a normal horse, save for the fact his stupid mutton chops made it over somehow.

"If he can't have the hat, suppose it only makes sense he gets to keep his dick-tickler," Soap mutters as he crosses again from dirt path to dense foliage. It's only after a few seconds of no response that he realizes he was waiting for one at all.

Ghost.

Soap spins around, but the lieutenant isn't behind him (no other horses aside from himself, the Captain, and Gaz for that matter). He walks back out onto the path, but sees no sign of anyone or anything that could be Ghost, although Price turns around to give him a concerned look. (He's half convinced that he may be exaggerating the level of expressiveness his Captain has right now, but he's already committed to not thinking too hard about how his hindbrain interprets their situation.)

"Where's Ghost?" He already knows the answer, but Price's sudden look of alarm just confirms it.

They don't know.

[yashley]

As you all step out, what do you see?  (episode 111 spoiler:)

[honeyhobbs]

May i offer u Gaz in a sweater...

[canon-gabriel-quotes]

wear headphones :)

Transcript:

As much as I'd love to witness more of your prowess, I'd very much like to have that body of yours.

Is that a strap-on?

Machine, I'll cover you in more than blood.

Fuck. *exhale* Shit. Fuck-God! mmmm-ohohoho. fuck. fuck. h-Harder, Machine. Mph! *whimper* Hah... Come on!

End transcription

Sorry for this. I promise this is the worst thing I'll ever post. Unless he somehow manages to do something worse.

I can't really provide the audio sources in a neat way because this is 6 clips stuck together.

[themintman]

giggling I love them so much

[up-the-anti]

got too excited by my last post and invented casey kiramman so we could all have caitvi rasey

[morhido]

oh my boy, sweetest joy i've known

[lightsresonance]

I just watched both parkour civilization movies and I have so many thoughts about block game

Parkour civilization was restructured so that everyone begins at the bottom layer and makes their way to the top. The other main changes are that the route to the top is neither impossible nor barricaded by design. Failing a jump isn’t an instant ticket to perma death. There’s a universal safety net for so players can keep trying. 

But providing actual ways for the lower levels to advance, does not change the fact THAT THERE WAS A LOWER LEVEL WITH UNACCEPTABLE QUALITY OF LIFE IN THE FIRST PLACE WHAT OTHER CHANGES WERE MADE TO THE BOTTOM??? Are the noobs still kept on the verge of starvation?? Is food now free or do you still jump to eat?? Who farms food now that the pros don’t have to work?? Blocks are free for masters what about noobs & pros? And even if anyone at the base layer can make open attempts at the climb, are they provided the practice arenas of the higher levels??

Evbo’s ‘equal opportunity advancement’ solution also doesn’t address the other glaring problem of why parkour civilization was inherently flawed. Some people just suck at parkour! It’s simply not for them and their talents lie in other directions. But being a promising singer, builder, fighter, redstone engineer, or writer doesn’t matter because parkour is the ONLY valuable skill. You don’t like to jump but there’s only one route up. You could be at the bottom forever because your passion is worthless in Parkour Civilization. 

Evbo fails to dismantle anything besides the most obvious, corrupt flaws of the system because at the end of the day, he still successfully climbed said system! (With some cheating & help to bypass the locks ofc). So his idea of fairness is having everyone else climb too. But providing people access to his way up doesn’t change the fact they have only 1 way to climb. And that they have to climb in the first place.

See, the other thing that haunts me is the implanted memories. Evbo KNOWS there’s a lifestyle outside of parkour 24/7. Evbo remembers endless land, buildings, crafting, and mining. Resources gatekept by parkour once used to be open to obtain by anyone. Sure, the memories are fake but the dream didn’t have to be. He was champion then god. Evbo knows about the endless ground but didn’t consider making that idea a reality even with endless power at his fingertips. Because he’s so entrenched in this society. 

His dream was seeing endless skies and once he got there, he failed to share it with anyone else.

The sky used to be free.

TLDR Shonen protag works within in system they’re given and when system shows its flaws of corruption the narrative solution is to power up, beat up the big villains, and become the most op kid on the block instead of actually addressing societal flaws that accommodates and creates said villains

In this fanfic I will-

[spinjitsuburst]

robots who have been given wiring and parts mirroring internal organs and have wires that function as nerve endings and they're essentially "biologically" just like a human but with artificial parts are so cool and awesome yes this is about zane ninjago

[once-more-with-anxiety]

it has been nearly 20 years and I Don't Dance is still THE most sexually tense homoerotic scene in the history of cinema.

just...

yeah. homos.

[griffongrey]

The devs couldn't put Merrill and Bellara in a game together bc the combination of their autistic 🤝 adhd-with-the-same-special-interest friendship would be too powerful and they'd immediately solve every problem the plot could throw at them.

[sunlightbuck]

How do I gently bring up how lowkey obsessed I think Eddie is with Buck's current physique... like do yall get it? That man wants his man BIG. Buck's drinking his green smoothie for breakfast and Eddie's like "I thought you were bulking!!! ): " I'M CRAZY.

NODDING. eddie thinks buck is one of The most beautiful people he has ever laid eyes on, and it doesn’t matter how many times buck takes off his shirt eddies mouth goes dry and his heart stutters Every Time.

eddie would love buck smaller or bigger but he loves big buck and here are my thoughts:

1. buck takes pride in his body and working for how his body looks and eddie lovess that. bucks body is Not sculpted by the gods it’s sculpted by Buck and that does something to eddie. Buck Wants to look like this, it gives him confidence and seeing buck know he looks good makes eddie feel all 🥰🥰😍😍 inside.

2. buck can get slightly self conscious about his belly but eddie kisses him all over and lovessss wrapping his arms around bucks middle and giving the smallest squeeze, and sometimes buck is about to get a second helping of pasta and looks down at his tummy and frowns and puts the ladle back and eddie gets up all kind eyes and says. are you still hungry? And bucks like .. yeah. 🥺 And eddie serves him a big ol second helping bc he’s not gonna have his guy think he needs to deny himself anything especially not to improve his body which eddie thinks is PERFECTTT and buck smiles and takes his plate to the table and digs in.

3. eddie lovessss worshipping buck. Awe and Reverence are crucial to my eddiestanding of his feelings for buck and they’re mixed in with every touch and kiss, and big buck means more to hold and cherish.

Bonus number 4: he does NOT love buck being big bc it makes him feel like a smol boy. no. 🙅🏼‍♂️🙅🏼‍♂️🙅🏼‍♂️

this isn’t cohesive but. eddie loves big buck yes anon yay.

[mayhasopinions]

happy pride !! <3

[xxplastic-cubexx]

HAVE U SEEN THAT ONE CHERIK DEVIL AND ANGEL COSTUME HALLOWEEN ART THAT ONE COMIC BOOK ARTIST DID ON TWT

NO CAUUUUUSSE YOU DONT UNDERSTAND HOW FAST I MADE THE WHOLE THING MY HOMESCREEN: THE ARTIST IS JOSH CASSARA AND I OWE HIM EVERYTHING

the fuckin sillies chat i cant STAND them……

[nonsscrapheap]

for a while now its been plaguing my brain ever since ive been reading @keferon's Mecha Jazz Pilot au and all the other fics close to it, there's also other ideas but this one was persistent after i reread and thought about a certain movie.

james cameron' Avatar (i never watched the second movie)

this is obviously non-canon to the au that keferon has going on, and its just- its self indulgent.

i have no idea if someone else had this thought as well, but here's my take on it. IF SOMEONE DID LINK ME IT, I WANT TO READ IT.

anyway, say bye to jazz! he dies.

also pardon my characterization of the jazz and prowl- this is literally the first time i've ever written the two and i definitely need to read more of them both.

--------------- Mecha Jazz Pilot AU -----------------

Prowl has always known that his time with Jazz would be tragically short, ever since he found out a human's lifespan was barely a vorn, 83 years at best, and it would possibly be shorter because Jazz was a pilot, a warrior, a fighter.

Prowl has felt the loss before, witnessed the death of his fellow Cybertronians in the Quintesson war, it was war after all. But the thought of losing Jazz in the middle of it, of cutting his already short lifespan—

His Tacnet, a blessing and a curse, had a folder of the data of Jazz's possible demise after every battle in percentages and possibility divergences. It's a folder that Prowl refused to acknowledge for longer than necessary and a part of him hated that it was necessary because it gave him ways to prevent any similar incident and ensure Jazz would continue to live but at the same time just reminded him just how fragile humans were.

If Prowl could have his way, he would spend that precious vorn with Jazz in peace. If Prowl could truly have his way, he'd find a way to extend Jazz's life beyond his species' expectancy.

But that is a path that might not sit well with Jazz. Jazz, who unintentionally distracts him from thinking more on it with his ridiculousness, his antics, actions, skills, words, music—

Primus the music.

Constant, be it from Jazz's mecha speakers, to Jazz's humming, to Jazz's rhythmic tapping of both flesh and metal digits or limbs, Jazz switching rhythms time and time again, slow, fast, alternating, Jazz's constant shifting, Jazz smiling at him from inside his mecha

Jazz Jazz Jazz Jazz

Music in his audials as Jazz takes his servos in his mecha body, swinging him around in a familiar makeshift dance

Jazz Jazz Jazz Jazz

Music sounding out as Jazz takes the tentacle of a Quintesson and twists

Jazz Jazz Jazz Jazz

Music barely heard through the echoed screams of the underground tunnels as the Quintessons are trying to reach Primus' spark

Jazz Jazz Jazz Jazz

The moment he stops hearing the music, is the moment he screams. "JAZZ!"

They've won.

The leader of the Quintessons, Quintessa (Jazz would mock their naming skills, Quintessa? Really?) had made one final battle against Cybertron. Trying to breach the planet's core, to reach Primus' very spark which lead everyone diving down into the planet to prevent such a thing from happening.

Quintessa is dead, he hears, but he does not care as he bounds towards his human partner. The mecha is down. The music has stopped.

Primus' spark pulses miles above him, shining down and softly lighting a scene from his grimmest of possibilities. A nightmare come to life. It's hauntingly beautiful and Prowl would scream at the spark of his god to stop if he wasn't so concerned about Jazz at the moment.

Jazz's mecha is splayed on blood-spilt ground, energon and Quintesson blood alike. It's staining the mecha's broken frame, one of his arms is missing, there are holes in the armor and one of his digitigrade legs is barely holding on, bent in ways it shouldn't be able to even in its unique shape.

He does not see red but that doesn't ease his worries at all because Jazz is inside the mecha, red would be inside the mecha. Please don't let there be red in the mecha don't let there be red in the mecha.

There's gasps somewhere behind Prowl as he pries open the mecha's chassis, trying to reach the cockpit and—

10o % R e D

There's a moment of white noise.

There's a body in his servos.

Still and limp.

Red dripping from his digits.

Prowl looks up to his creator's spark and screams.

---------------------------

There is distress near its spark.

There is distress and violence near its spark once more.

Earlier, outsiders had come to it. Tried to harm it.

Familiar, unwelcomed.

Yet an outsider saved it. A different outsider than the ones that tried to attack it.

This one, welcomed, as it had echoes of one of its children's spark lingering by its own, strange spark. Though different, the outsider's spark was. Held in something much softer than protoform. Detached from its other outer hard frame

Curious.

It was not like the other outsiders, that much was clear.

But oh, this outsider has perished. So near to its spark.

That is troubling.

That is sad.

But the outsider's spark lingers, it can feel it. It can hear it.

AmIdead?IsthatProwlerohnoProwlerProwlerI'msorryI'msosorry

Faintly, in quiet, quick whispers.

ScrapProwlernodon't.Don'tshitohProwl

One of his children is in distress and its because of the outsider spark's old soft frame. So much smaller.

RedAlertdon'tyou'rejustgoingtoohfuckwowokayProwlerpunchedRedAlertthat'sohnoProwlerProwlerProwldon't

Its distressed child is fighting its other children now, unwilling to relinquish the old soft frame.

The outsider's spark is equally distressed and was trying to calm its child but could not do so. Because the outsider's small frame has perished, and its poor child could not see the outsider's spark.

LetgoofmeProwlI'msorryit'llit'llbeokayweknewourtimewasshortpleasepleaseProwl

What compassion, this outsider had for its child.

And what grief, its child had for this outsider.

S y m p a t h y

For the first time in a long, long time. It reached out.

Woahwhatthefuck

Its children freeze as it reached out to its grieving child.

Whatishappeningwhatohmygodwhyiswaitdidn'tProwlsaythatCybertron'scorewasPrimus?

The outsider knew its name, how lovely.

C o n f i r m a t i o n

I'mdeadandI'mtalkingtoProwler'sgodwhattheactualfuck

A m u s e m e n t

You'relaughingatmeIcanfeelitwaitwhatareyoudoingwithmymecha

Its child cries out, still holding on to the outsider's soft frame but reaching out to grab the outsider's hard frame in obvious concern. It lightly curls a tiny sliver around its child to gently admonish it.

It needed the hard frame.

HeyheywhatPrimusaliengodwhatareyoudoingwhatareyoudoingwaitwaitwait

Ever so gently, it grabbed the outsider's spark. So strange, so different from its spark and its children. Yet thankfully, similar enough.

IholyfuckIthinkIsawthisinamovieonceareyougoingtofuckingAvatarmewhatthehell

It does not understand the outsider's words, but it does feel the emotions whirling within the outsider's spark. Especially when it starts to fix the hard frame that once held its soft frame.

R e a s s u r a n c e H a p p i n e s s

Why

It guided the outsider's spark towards its child, frozen, still holding the outsider's soft frame. The empty vessel tucked close to it.

BecauseofProwler

So many emotions from this outsider spark, what a wonder it was to find that some outsiders were like its children. And not like other outsiders that tried to harm its children and itself.

Look, it finished fixing the hard frame.

H a p p i n e s s

Woahwoahwoahwaitdon'tIgetachoice?Whycan'tIcomebackasahuman?

It wanted its soft frame back? Curious. Unfortunately, it cannot do the same with its soft frame. Perhaps with its other extensions of itself, the Matrix, the Allspark, there would have been a chance.

But it, itself, cannot use the soft frame.

Besides, there was a perfectly good hard frame right there.

And it is a very wonderful hard frame, very creative! It approves of its design.

Aliengodlikesmymechathat'sgreatnowaitfocus

Time to go, outsider spark.

Huhwhatnowait

Be happy with its child.

Primusholdup

It pulled the outsider's spark into the hard frame, watching as it settled into the hard frame almost immediately.

C o n t e n t

---------------

Jazz felt disoriented as he landed on his feet. Feeling each joint of his legs as he staggered in place but managed to keep balance. "Fucking hell." Jazz groaned, reaching up to rub at his helmet, feeling the smooth metal under his fingertips.

Wait.

Hold the fuck up.

"... Jazz?"

Jazz's head snapped up to see- Prowler. His Prowler standing there with a tear-streaked faceplate of wide-eyed(optic) shock. His own eyes blink (???) as his gaze goes down to Prowl's hands and-

That's his body.

That's his human body in Prowl's hands.

Servos.

What the fuck.

Jazz looks down to his body and- it's his mecha. He's in his mecha but he's not- his hands fly up to his face.

No visor.

Soft metal, just like Prowl's faceplate and-

"Jazz!"

Oop, no time to think! Armfull of Prowler who is still holding on to his dead human body what the fuck.

Instinctively, he wraps his hands around Prowl, dumbfounded and in shock as he tries to process everything. He sees the other Cybertronians, Red Alert chief among them, hesitantly stepping forward.

Jazz looks at them. Then at Prowl. Then at Primus. Then back down to Prowl.

"... I think your god likes me."

Prowl makes a strangled noise that was half a laugh and a sob, "You don't say."

There's a breakdown waiting to happen for Jazz, he's pretty sure.

For the moment though, he's just glad to be able to hug Prowl again.

-----------------

say hi to jazz! he's alive again!

primus ships jazzprowl, spread the word

but yeah definitely self indulgent.

[pettyprocrastination]

Leg Day

Pairing: Art Donaldson x Female Powerlifter!Reader

Summary: You first catch Art Donaldson's eye in the university gym when all you want to do is hit back and biceps before class, the tennis player finds himself quite caught in your physique.

Warnings: foul language, smut, oral (f receiving), Art eats pussy and likes your thighs a whole lot. Reader is described as muscular. One line describes reader as not looking like Tashi in terms of physique.

Word Count: 1k

Author's note: Forcing myself to get back into writing at the same time im forcing myself to get back to the gym :') take this lil ficlet as a sign of my love for those who still follow me on here lmaoo.

Art adored your thighs. 

You didn’t look like Tashi. Not that there was anything wrong with that in his mind, of course. But the physiques differed greatly. The star tennis player of Stanford had a lean build from her years of training and perfecting her sport. Long legs that covered the court in smooth strides and toned arms that delivered a vicious backhand. 

The same body he and Patrick had nearly shared that one fateful night in a dingey hotel room when they should have been sleeping before their match in the morning. The same body he had found his gaze lingering on a touch too long to be appropriate for his best friend's girlfriend. 

And the same body you called him out for drooling over in the campus gym when all you wanted to do was a simple arm workout before your 10 am. 

“So are you actually going to use the bench or are you just gonna sit on it and stare at her like a fucking creep for another twenty minutes?” 

You were not Tashi Duncan. 

Strong arms crossed over one another as you waited for him to either say something or move, neither of which his brain could comprehend as you stood before him expectantly. A powerful, if not a tad intimidating physique supported by thick, muscular quads built from years of lifting heavy in sweat-filled weight rooms since you were a little girl that grew tired of soccer. 

Then cheer. 

Then volleyball. 

The gymnastics. 

Powerlifting was the one sport that finally stuck. 

“It makes me feel strong.” You had explained your love for the sport to him one night. With his head laying in your lap, the textbook he had carried with him to your dorm under the excuse of needing help studying now laid discarded on your floor as he listened to your story. “Seeing how much I can lift, how it feels to finally make a weight you’ve been struggling with for so long. It feels like you’re proving something, you know? Especially when you’re one of the only girls in the weight room.” 

Art could feel the testament to your craft under him. The thick corded muscle of your quads beneath his head as your fingers carded through his hair absentmindedly. Legs that were hugged by every pair of shorts you wore or hidden beneath the same pair of Stanford sweatpants whenever you felt a chill in the air. He found himself dreading the coming of winter as the two of you began to spend more time together. 

He wasn’t sure when the admiration began to shift into something deeper, slowly turning from one athlete showing respect for another’s commitment to their sport into a hormonal college freshman staring at your ass in spandex shorts each time he bumped into you at the campus gym. 

What he did know was that the night he finally found himself between your legs was one he would never forget. How quickly the pair of you shed your clothes in one anothers embrace, turning your room into nothing more than a collection of discarded study packets and kicked off Stanford merch telling the story that Art would no doubt replay in his mind for the entirety of winter break. 

The soft smile on your face as he crawled on top of you, pressing fervent kisses to every inch of your body that you would allow him access. How he memorized each microscopic reaction, that a kiss to your neck would make you giggle but turn into a shuddering gasp if he dug his teeth into the skin. How you softened in his arms when he ran his tongue along the scar lining your hip, one he would have to ask you about someday. 

But dear God, he could write poetry about your legs. 

The feeling of them wrapping around his head while he lapped at your cunt with tentative kitten licks that soon turned into devouring you with a desperation that could no doubt be heard through the walls. Your muscles twitching and trembling from his touch as you cried out his name with an arched back and scrambling hands, desperately trying to reach him until you found purchase in his soft curls, gripping just tight enough to verge on being painful. His own moans mixing with yours, poor bastard getting so lost in giving you pleasure he didn't even realize when he began to grind his hips into your mattress, desperately searching for a release while helping you reach your own. 

To hear your voice pitch into an airy whine as your thighs tightened around his head. Tighter and tighter as he pushed you over the edge of your orgasm, hips twitching against his mouth still working away against your dripping cunt in a way that verged on being gluttonous until you pulled him away with a sharp tug on his hair. 

In the aftermath, a silence settled over the two of you like a soft blanket. Spit-slicked lips laid feather-light kisses against the still twitching muscles of your thighs, pressing against the blooming bite marks that he knew would just barely peek out from the cuff of your shorts you wore during your morning training sessions. A minuscule stake of claim that he had no business branding you with given that he was too chickenshit to take you out on a real date. 

Had you opened your eyes, you’d see that his were already trained on you with a softness you weren’t yet ready to see. Admiring the rise and fall of your chest with a faint smile on his face and the desire to take you out properly. To scrounge up enough money from his bank account after the room & board payments bleed him dry to some small burger shop or maybe the local theater to see you outside of the walls of your dorm or the university gym, wearing something nice and laughing at his jokes before kissing him goodnight. To sit in the stands of his next match as his girlfriend and congratulate him on his win with an overly obnoxious kiss that he would swear was humiliating but made him preen under your praise like a peacock during mating season. To do all of the downright nauseatingly romantic bullshit every nineteen year old boy wanted to do with the girl he was too afraid to actually make a move on. 

But not yet. 

“Have you ever considered wrestling? You’ve got a killer leg lock.”