#base layer football

[seo-expert0012]

The Ultimate Guide to Base Layers: Everything You Need to Know

Base layers, often referred to as thermal underwear or simply "thermals," are a crucial component of any outdoor enthusiast's wardrobe. Whether you're hitting the slopes, going for a winter hike, or just braving a chilly day, a good base layer can make all the difference in keeping you warm, dry, and comfortable. But what exactly does a base layer do, and how does it differ from other layers? Let's dive into the world of base layers and explore everything you need to know.

What Does a Base Layer Do?

At its core, a base layer serves two primary functions: insulation and moisture management. In cold weather conditions, a base layer works to trap heat close to the body, providing essential warmth without adding bulk. This helps regulate your body temperature and keeps you comfortable during outdoor activities. Additionally, base layers are designed to wick moisture away from the skin, keeping you dry and reducing the risk of hypothermia. By pulling sweat away from your body, base layers help prevent chafing and discomfort, especially during high-intensity activities.

Base Layer vs. Thermals: Is There a Difference?

While the terms "base layer" and "thermals" are often used interchangeably, there is a subtle distinction between the two. Thermals typically refer to base layers specifically designed for cold weather conditions, with insulating properties to keep you warm in low temperatures. On the other hand, a base layer can encompass a broader range of garments, including those designed for moisture-wicking purposes in warmer climates. In essence, all thermals are base layers, but not all base layers are thermals.

Base Layer vs. Mid Layer: Understanding the Layers

To fully understand the role of a base layer, it's essential to grasp its place within the layering system. The layering system consists of three main layers: base, mid, and outer. The base layer sits closest to your skin and provides insulation and moisture management, as mentioned earlier. The mid layer adds additional insulation and helps retain heat, while the outer layer, such as a jacket or shell, acts as a protective barrier against wind, rain, and snow. Each layer works together to create a versatile system that can be adjusted based on weather conditions and activity level.

Is a Base Layer Meant to Be Tight?

One common question about base layers is whether they should fit snugly against the skin. The answer is yes. A properly fitting base layer should have a close, athletic fit that allows for maximum moisture transfer and insulation. A snug fit helps the fabric maintain contact with your skin, optimizing its ability to wick moisture away and keep you warm. However, it's essential to strike a balance between snugness and comfort. A base layer that is too tight can restrict movement and cause discomfort, while one that is too loose may not effectively manage moisture or provide adequate insulation.

Exploring Base Layers in Pakistan:

In Pakistan, where outdoor enthusiasts face diverse climates ranging from the freezing peaks of the Himalayas to the balmy beaches of the Arabian Sea, base layers are essential gear for any adventure. Whether you're trekking in the northern mountains, cycling through the bustling streets of Lahore, or playing a friendly game of football in Karachi, having the right base layer can enhance your performance and enjoyment.

Types of Base Layers:

Base layers come in a variety of materials and styles to suit different activities and weather conditions. Some popular types include:

- Merino Wool Base Layers: Known for their natural warmth, breathability, and odor resistance, merino wool base layers are a favorite among outdoor enthusiasts. They provide excellent insulation and moisture management, making them ideal for cold weather activities.

- Synthetic Base Layers: Made from materials like polyester or nylon, synthetic base layers are lightweight, quick-drying, and durable. They excel at wicking moisture away from the skin and are often favored for high-intensity activities.

- Silk Base Layers: Silk base layers offer luxurious comfort and exceptional warmth without adding bulk. They are incredibly lightweight and soft against the skin, making them an excellent choice for layering under dress clothes or for mild weather conditions.

- Thermal Base Layers: Designed specifically for cold weather conditions, thermal base layers are thicker and more insulating than standard base layers. They provide extra warmth and are often used for activities like skiing, snowboarding, and winter hiking.

Choosing the Right Base Layer:

When selecting a base layer, consider factors such as activity level, weather conditions, and personal preferences. Look for materials that offer a good balance of insulation, moisture management, and comfort. Additionally, pay attention to fit and layering compatibility to ensure maximum performance and versatility.

Base Layer Price in Pakistan:

Base layer prices in Pakistan can vary depending on factors such as brand, material, and features. High-quality base layers from reputable outdoor brands may command a higher price, but they often offer superior performance and durability. However, there are also more affordable options available for those on a budget, making it possible to find a suitable base layer for any price range.

Conclusion:

In conclusion, base layers are an essential component of any outdoor enthusiast's wardrobe, providing insulation, moisture management, and comfort in a variety of weather conditions. Whether you're braving the cold in the mountains or staying active in the city, having the right base layer can enhance your performance and enjoyment. By understanding the role of base layers and choosing the right options for your needs, you can stay warm, dry, and comfortable on all your adventures, no matter where they take you.

[lovemicheal]

I want every psg player with the short sleeve/base layer combo to get shot

[tacticoal]

「scowls to smiles」 : ̗̀➛ you drive them crazier in love...

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ sfw, gn reader (mentions of makeup [kyle]), unedited, mdni !!

john price

"you're definitely the only person i would do this for..."

john grumbles, his arms crossed and his body slumped in the seat. you roll your eyes at him, snatching the remote next to him from behind the couch to change the television channel. the boisterous cheers get cut off, switching from your boyfriend's weekly football channel to the horror documentaries you oh-so love. you walk around to slide next to john, leaning into the arm he reaches out to you. it wraps around you out of instinct, pulling you in closer.

"you promised me we could watch tonight's episode," you remind him, pressing a kiss to his cheek, "besides, you know kyle's recording it for you tomorrow.."

a deep sigh (closer to a groan, really) escapes his lips, knowing garrick and the other two are out together watching the game at their local pub. still, he settles in, pressing a kiss to your temple, trying to ignore the spam of texts he's getting from the others about who scored what.

simon riley

the bedframe creaks aggressively at the way you're shaking simon's burly body, echoing throughout your shared loft. he's usually so good at waking up without a second thought back at base -- his body sensing the slightest movement meters away. but now? now his body's facing away from you, snoring loudly, almost as if he's mocking you.

oh, bring it on.

you are so going to get noise complaints for the wrong ideas, but you don't care at the moment. you're wide awake, and he's not.

it's so pretty outside, you nearly fell out of bed once you saw the slightest bit of golden light peeking into the room, glowing on the walls. looking past the curtains, the sky is painted in soft lavenders and ceruleans -- the sun just barely peeping out from behind the layers of old buildings.

"simon- wake up!! the sunrise is so pretty today, and the whole city's all pretty and there's no people out and its nice 'n cool so we can go out and get coffee and tea and breakfast-!!"

you yelp as he rolls over, nearly knocking you back. he's now laying on his back, eyes still shut, hair poking out and around in tufts, one big hand lazily grasping onto yours.

"y'know what else is pretty, love? sleep."

he tugs you slightly towards him, you legs knocking into the mattress. you let out a loud huff.

"no way, si'. i want a cute morning date with you, and if you're not up in the next 5 seconds i'm so going by mysel-"

a loud groan interrupts you, the bear of a man beneath you slowly rising to sit, rubbing at his eyes before sending a teasing glare your way.

"go grab my hoodie."

kyle garrick

kyle wakes up with a groan, stretching his stiff limbs out from the couch. the sun was still beaming through the cracks of the shades, illuminating the living room. he remembers falling asleep while waiting for you to finish your digital meeting in the other room, your muffled voice luring him into sleep. swinging his legs over the cushion to stand, he lets out a satisfied hum as his knees pop, before heading to the bathroom.

just before he could make it to the toilet, his head snaps back to the mirror. your giggles echo from behind kyle, as he tiredly rubs a hand down his face.

his perfectly contoured, flushed, powder-set face.

"really, love?"

"i dunno, kyle, this is a reallllly good look on you..."

you peek over his shoulder, a wide grin stretching your face. his eyes (outlined and enamored in glittery eyeshadow, keep in mind) glared at you through the mirror, letting out a deep sigh as you walk past him to take out the hidden cosmetics from the cabinet, showing them off to him. you rambled about how hard to was to find his exact shade so you bought 5 different foundations just in case (with his money...), that he kept twitching his eyes and messing up the eyeliner, how he almost woke up because the tutorial video blasted an ad midway through-

"you're so annoying, good god... i love you so much, c'mere-"

he was quick to turn around and cup your face with both hands, cutting off your squeals with a sticky kiss. one on the mouth, then the apples of your cheeks, then your chin, until your entire face was covered in cherry red silhouettes of his lips.

you wore his marks with beaming pride for the rest of the day.

john mactavish

johnny comes out of the kitchen with his eyebrows knit together and a frown creasing his lips. he swore up and down he saw it in the cabinets last, maybe it was in his bag? the bedroom? hell, he even checked the pockets of his jeans sitting in the laundry.

he rounds the corner of the hallway to where you were. you probably knew best, always the one to reorganize the shelves and put away the groceries. he grins as he sees you, lazing on the couch, watching the television,

"birdie, where's mah-"

and apparently snacking on the chocolate bar he's been searching for.

"...chocolate."

you two stare at each other, the voiceover from the luminous screen taking up the silence. johnny watches you chew very slowly, as if he wouldn't notice so long as you did it carefully enough. you look so cute like this, he thinks, looking up at him so innocently, seeming so happy with your treat. a perfectly disguised criminal he would've dismissed without a second thought. with an agonizingly slow swallow, you cleared your throat before speaking up,

"sorry, babe.."

oh, how could he ever be mad at you?

he lets out an amused huff, pushing himself off the wall to walk over to you. expecting some sort of punishment, you squeeze your eyes shut.

instead, you feel a firm kiss press on your chocolate-stained lips. with a surprised gasp, you invite him in to prod his tongue past your teeth. and after an awfully messy few seconds, he peels back, a satisfied smirk on his lips. another peck is delivered to your lips, before he settles into the couch beside you.

you may be a wanted criminal, but he's already had his heart stolen by you. and he's too damn smitten to turn you in.

@ tacticoal do not repost !!

[heliads]

About the War (Part 1) - Draco Malfoy

Everyone has a part to play during the Second Wizarding War. Your job is to maintain a network of Portkeys for safe passage of the Order of the Phoenix. Later, you get a new role: handling the new spy among the Death Eaters, Draco Malfoy.

masterlist / part two

You haven’t seen anyone in five days. It was eight days before that. Then six. It varies, usually. Nothing here should be the same. If it’s the same, then it’s repetitive, and if it repeats, then they can track you. And if the Death Eaters track you, you are dead, and if you are dead, the war is over.

That is how it works. You are in the middle of the woods in the middle of nowhere. Still in Britain, you think you decided that a while ago, but you’ve been trying not to make any details certain. They say the Death Eaters can look inside your brain, peel it apart by layers and learn every single damned secret you keep about the Order of the Phoenix. The less you know, the less you’ll give them, the better.

But how can you keep any secret for long? The few members of the Order that cross your path all bring back horrific stories of the torture inflicted upon the witches and wizards unfortunate enough to get themselves captured. You’re no hero. You’re just a magical person, trying to keep your part of the warfront intact, and if you were tortured, you’d give up whatever information you had for the pain to stop. It’s the same with everybody. They say the really gung-ho ones have started trying to master casting the Killing Curse wandless so they can off themselves once they’re captured, but you’ve been too afraid of accidentally turning it upon yourself too early to ever give that one a go.

So, you wait. You’re out here for a reason, after all. You are in charge of maintaining the northeastern Node, one in a chain of– well, you don’t know how many. That’s the point. No one should know all of anything. Your job is to maintain a small camp that can house up to a dozen members of the Order at any time, and keep it protected by a heavy curtain of protection charms and enchantments to ward off the Death Eaters. You’re in the forest surrounding a small town, far off the beaten trail. When they dropped you off here at the start of the war, they instructed you to refresh your hiding charms every day, but you’ve been at it a lot more frequently than that. It gives you something to do, at least. Something more than just staring at the odd assortment of chests and boots and odd Muggle trinkets littered in the center of your camp.

After all, you’re not just out here for fun. The point of the Node maintainers is that they safeguard an extensive collection of Portkeys that lead to the locations of various Order bases across Europe. Some, you can refresh yourself, but often members of the Order will drop by and swap out a boot for a hat, or a football for the broken head of a broomstick. They never tell you where the Portkeys go, and you’re not stupid enough to ask. Members appear and disappear out of nowhere, always in a hurry, always terrified, and then they leave you through another Portkey and you’re alone again.

You can’t tell which you would hate more, the endless torment of this solitary hideout in the forest or the constant peril of the front lines. You didn’t ask for this position, and the Order certainly wouldn’t trust anyone who did. You were pulled aside when assignments were first being handed out. You had been a member of Dumbledore’s Army back in your fifth year, and quite a promising spellcaster to boot, so you’d assumed you would have been drafted to fight just like many of the others.

Dumbledore’s Army. Merlin, it feels like a lifetime ago. You’ve spent many nights lying awake on your cot, remembering the complicated spells and jinxes you’d slung at your classmates as if you were in a dream. It feels impossible that could have happened just a few years ago. All you know now is dirt and blood, hiding and the looming fear of your eventual capture. The only life is the war. The fact that you could have ever existed beforehand, dressed in school robes, laughing with friends that hadn’t yet died, practicing the Expelliarmus charm while the afternoon sun filtered in through blue-tinted windows, is inconceivable.

All of Hogwarts seems like a distant memory now. How could it be that the biggest struggle in your life was trying to pass your classes, or getting enough points to win the House Cup? For years, your biggest enemy was a platinum blond Slytherin, and the only conflict in your life was finding a way to stay ahead of him in grades. You have no idea where Draco Malfoy is now, but based on his surname alone, you can assume he’s been drafted to fight just like you have, only on the opposite side.

You sigh, taking a careful glance at the forest surrounding you. It’s been a long time since you saw anyone from your school days, friend or otherwise. You have no idea if the people passing through your makeshift stronghold are running or pursuing, fleeing or fighting. You have only the barest notions of the war at all, only that it’s starting to go on longer than anyone expected and that hope is swiftly draining from everyone. Harry, Ron, and Hermione are nowhere to be found. Witches and wizards disappear by the day, and then there’s people like you, split up, grasping at straws to figure out if your best friends have died yet.

What matters more than the physical Order is the idea of the Order, you decide. You have no idea how many members are still alive, if any are at all. You don’t know a single thing, only that you must remain at your Node and keep it safe. People come in from time to time, bleeding, ragged, half-dead already. You nurse some of them back to health, and bury others. Most leave after a few days. No one likes staying in one place for long, but you’ve been here eight months with no discernable change.

You used to go into town every now and then, during the early days. You’d transfigure rocks and leaves into Muggle money so you could buy food and necessities. It was morally wrong, maybe, and you’re certain that in a former life McGonagall had made you write a paper on the importance of only using transfiguration for ethical purposes, but you were starving more often than you weren’t and you had to get supplies somehow. After a close call that ended with Death Eaters combing the woods for you for weeks, however, you stopped your visits unless it was absolutely necessary.

Now, you don’t see anyone at all unless they’re stopping by your Node. They alternate between being maddeningly talkative and silent like the dead. You’re not sure which version unsettles you more, the ones who clutch the bony trees to support themselves while they whisper ceaselessly about the horrors they’ve seen, or the ones who curl up on the ground, shaking, mouth pressed together so firmly you almost wonder if their lips are stitched shut with a hex. Once they leave, you usually don’t see them again. Half the time, you find out from another walking ghost of the Order that they died in a battle some weeks later. No one stays alive for long.

It doesn’t matter what’s going on out there. None of that matters. The only important thing is maintaining the Portkeys. You’ve progressed to checking your protective charms hourly. Sometimes, Death Eaters apparate out of nowhere in the surrounding forest, and you have to press a hand over your mouth to stay silent as they walk so close they almost hear you breathing. One time, a pack of werewolves came through, and you swear they caught your scent. You’re certain they would have stuck around until they figured out how to pierce your enchantments and rip you to pieces were it not for the fact that they were called away by the appearance of a Dark Mark some distance to the east. That night, you checked your spells constantly, walking a never ending circle around your camp to make sure not a single sigil had faltered.

A shuffling sound behind you makes you startle, and you whip around to find that one of the Portkeys is shaking alarmingly. You whip out your wand, pointing it at the now furiously rattling Portkey and readying yourself for a fight. A sudden light glows from the object, bright and scalding, before growing to an impressive height and disappearing again. In its place is a man, his clothing rumpled and skin dashed with blood. Despite the gloom of the forest, a gold hoop shines from one of his ears. It looks like Kingsley Shacklebolt, but over the course of the war, you’ve had a lot of close encounters with what looked like your friends, and ultimately weren’t.

You don’t drop your wand for a second. “When you first met me, I was making a potion to heal an injured classmate. What were the core ingredients?”

The man doesn’t move a muscle. “Dittany and eagle feathers. What was the name of my first toad?”

You wrinkle your nose. “Since when have you had a toad?”

Your intruder points the tip of his wand at you. “Answer the question.”

You breathe out slowly, thinking. “Merlin, I haven’t the faintest of ideas. You’ve never mentioned a toad to me in your life. Is it a trick question?”

The wizard stares at you a second longer, then slowly lowers his wand. “Correct.”

You drop your wand with a sigh. “Kingsley, I have enough on my mind without you trying to break my brain. Come up with a question I know next time.”

Kingsley Shacklebolt arches a dark brow. “You did know the answer, which was the point. Any imitation would have guessed.”

You fold your arms across your chest. “And I nearly did, too. We’ve got few enough members of the Order as is, no need to go blowing the real ones to smithereens just because they’re too exhausted to play your mind games.”

Something in Kingsley’s expression relaxes a micrometer. “Another close call by the Death Eaters?”

You nod and shudder. “Three days ago. They haven’t been back since, and it was only in the town, not the forest, but still. They’re getting closer, I swear it.”

Kingsley sighs, taking a seat on a nearby tree stump. “I wouldn’t doubt it. No one knows the exact network of the Portkey Nodes, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they guess at it.”

You nod slowly. “More of them have been taken out, haven’t they? The Nodes, I mean. I’ve had more traffic than at the start.”

Kingsley glances sharply at you. “Don’t take this as a sign to slip away, L/N. Your job is pivotal to the function of the Order. With the Portkeys, there’s less Apparition into the safehouses, and we can make stronger defense charms. We rely on the Nodes to keep our people safe.”

You hold up your hands in surrender. “I know, I know. I’m not trying to argue, just gauge how many of us are gone.”

Kingsley looks away. “No way of telling.”

A heavy silence hangs over the clearing. You’re the one to break it at last, once the quiet seems like it’ll choke you. “Are you staying long?”

“Afraid not,” Kingsley says. “I’m behind schedule already.”

“Of course,” you reply, trying not to let your disappointment seep through into the words. It’s just– it’s been so long since you had a visitor stick around longer than five minutes, and of course you know they’re only here for transit between safehouses, but the loneliness is eating away at you.

Kingsley looks at you with a tinge of regret. “Actually, you may not be on your own for much longer. We’ve–” His voice breaks off, and he takes a cautious glance around the forest before continuing more quietly, “We’ve acquired a spy on the other side. Someone high up has agreed to feed us information on Voldemort’s troop movements and planned attacks.”

You inhale sharply. “You’re serious?”

“As the grave,” Kingsley nods. “I don’t want to reveal details out here, without knowing who’s listening, but it’s someone important. They’ll come once a week to give you reports, and you’ll hand off the information to the next Order member returning to headquarters. You’ll know it’s the spy because they’ll use a passcode. Saltwater.”

“I understand,” you say, but your mind is reeling. Winning over a spy is huge, to say the least. You knew there had been attempts throughout the whole course of the war, but most Death Eaters were too afraid of Voldemort’s wrath to risk such a thing. So you’d thought at least, but it appears the tide has turned in your favor.

Kingsley nods, and tells you to watch yourself before grabbing hold of another Portkey and disappearing. You’re left to stand by yourself in the forest, with only the waving boughs of the trees overhead for company.

The idea of the spy keeps you preoccupied for days after. Kingsley hadn’t said when the spy would come, but you doubt he has any more idea of it than you do. However this spy is, they probably want to keep as many details to themselves as possible. You have no doubt that the only reason they’re having you of all people meet the spy is because you’re in the middle of nowhere and don’t know enough about the battle plans of the Order to be worth anything if captured, but it still sparks some iota of pride in your heart.

You’re now hyper aware of every disturbance in the forest, if you weren’t already. Once, a dead branch falls off a tree, and you swear your heart nearly stops from fear. And then, four days after your meeting with Kingsley, someone appears in the forest. It’s not the spy, though. It can’t be. It’s a Death Eater, clearly hunting through the woods, and it’s–

It’s Draco Malfoy. You rise as stealthily as you can from your seat near the edge of camp, wand already in hand, and silently watch him comb through the trees. You’re certain that the spy must already have been found out, that they’ve sent someone as notorious as a Malfoy to kill you and show the Order for good what happens when you try to turn their own against them. Draco turns his head from side to side, constantly scanning the area like a fine hunting dog. His wand is wrapped between long, slender fingers, and you know without knowing that were he to find you now, you would be lucky to receive only the Killing Curse.

His relentless pace slows as he draws closer to the camp. You had renewed your illusion charms only half an hour ago, and you’re certain they’ll hold, but you’re damned if he doesn’t seem like he knows exactly where he’s going. You watch with bated breath as he comes closer, closer, and then, all of a sudden, stops right in front of the boundary to your camp. You can see the sigils and symbols magicked in a circle around you, but he can’t. Surely, he can’t. You’re frozen in place, close enough that he could reach out a hand and grasp your arm if he wanted.

On the exterior of the protective charms, all Draco should be able to see is an impenetrable wall of thickets and brambles, too difficult to traverse and not worth the difficulty of burning away. You’ve been complimented on your spells a few times by now, with several Order members who had attempted to walk to you having to receive significant direction by you to make it inside. Apparently, there’s such a strong wayward charm that it requires substantial mental focus not to turn around immediately, yet there Draco Malfoy remains, mere breaths away, and, damnedly enough, smiling. The points of his lips have crooked up into a slight grin, as if he’s pleased, almost, that he’s about to kill you.

You stay there for what feels like lifetimes. He’s staring dead into your eyes, but somehow you know that he cannot see you. You try to keep your breath calm and quiet, even though you know the heavy enchantments blanketing the camp should hide that for you.

Still, when he finally turns and walks away, you feel as if you have just been pulled from a noose of certain death. You still don’t move, but your shoulders drop slightly, cushioned by a weight of relief. Draco stalks across the clearing, moving further than closer, back and forth. At last, after what must be twenty minutes of thorough searching, Draco stops moving altogether and says,

“You can come out now, you know.”

The terror returns in full force. This is exactly what you’d feared, a Death Eater sent to hunt you down for good. Kingsley wouldn’t admit it, but you’re certain they’ve gotten to some of the other Nodes. Someone must have spilled about you being here, and now Draco has been sent to scourge your brain of every last secret you’ve got.

You remain silent, mentally readying yourself to fight. Draco turns in a slow half circle, back to face you again. “I’m not going to kill you. I appreciate the secrecy, I do, but if I really wanted you dead, I would set the whole damned place alight with Fiendfyre and call it a day. Your spells are good, but surely not good enough to save you from that.”

Confusion starts to radiate through you. After another few moments of silence, Draco heaves a frustrated sigh and starts stalking towards you. “I know you’re here. We’re both wanting the same damn thing, now come out already. I don’t have all day. I felt the strongest push from around here,” he says, drawing ever closer to you, “so I must assume you’re lurking just a little bit away.”

He stops moving right in front of you again. His face is irritated, an expression you’ve grown quite familiar with from years of rivalry centered around test scores and essay comments. Now, though? Draco is a Death Eater. He wants you dead. You’re leagues beyond your petty classroom fights. Yet you still see traces of the boy in the face of the man before you, and you cannot help but mourn everything the two of you left behind in a brightly lit classroom one midnight in June without even knowing it.

“Fine,” he says at last. “Don’t come out. You’re the one who needs me more than I need you.” A pause, a beat, a caught breath, and then he whispers out one last word– “Saltwater.”

Your eyes widen. It’s him. It can’t be him. It must be him. Draco Malfoy is your spy. You should really take the time to think this over, but all of a sudden you’re so afraid he’ll leave without giving you the information that you throw caution to the winds and step out from your protective barrier. Draco hasn’t really given you a lot of room between him and the edge of your camp, so when you emerge, seemingly out of nowhere from his perspective, you’re practically a breath away.

Draco is careful to keep his expression slack, but you swear you see a flash of surprise in his eyes. “Y/N,” he says, the slow drawl of confidence gone from his voice.

You just look at him coldly. “If you’re going to kill me, get it over with. I haven’t got all day,” you say, mirroring what he’d called to you in the clearing just moments before.

Draco lets out a sharp exhale that might almost be a laugh, but quickly recovers his haughty countenance from before. “Y/N L/N. I assumed it must be you. We hadn’t killed you yet, so either you had never joined this fight to begin with or you were hiding in your own shadow out here like I suspected.”

You arch a brow. “You think I’m hiding in my own shadow? Seems an awfully good shadow to me if you couldn’t find me without help.”

Draco scoffs. “I knew you were here. Trust me, if I really wanted to kill you, I would have smoked you out.”

“I’m sure you knew,” you say condescendingly. “Is that why you first started talking to that tree over there when you were trying to get me to come out?”

Draco’s jaw tightens imperceptibly. “If this is how you treat all your spies, I’m not surprised the Order doesn’t have so many. It’s not exactly the finest of hospitality.”

“What,” you ask, “You want me to invite you into my camp? Not a chance.”

Draco looks amused. “You still think I’m going to betray you? I haven’t killed you yet, have I?”

“And you still might,” you answer him. “I’m no stranger to the war, Malfoy. I’m not foolish enough to trust you just because you knew one passcode.”

“That’s the first smart thing you’ve said all day,” Draco says, but you swear he looks annoyed nonetheless. “I suppose you’ll want your end of the bargain now, won’t you? Information on the dreaded Dark Lord?”

“I do,” you say, and hold out a hand.

Draco ignores it. “This seems awfully generous of me, doesn’t it? Don’t you wonder what your Order has promised me in return for my willingness to betray my own?”

You can’t pretend that you haven’t wondered this exact thing. Knowing that your spy is Draco doesn’t exactly erase the question, either. What could Draco possibly want that a lifetime elevated as a Malfoy in Voldemort’s army and all the untold treasures of his family’s inheritance couldn’t buy? Still, you’re certain Draco is just fishing for gaps in your armor, and you’re not about to give him one this easily.

You smile at him winningly. “Maybe you’re finally in touch with your conscience and decided to do this free of charge. Maybe you just dream of the day when you can dance in the sunshine and pick wildflowers without having to fight in the Dark Lord’s army.”

Draco doesn’t look amused, even if you are. “Delusion and optimism are two sides of a coin, L/N. Take care not to cross them.”

You roll your eyes and hold out your hand again, more firmly this time. “I’ll take care when you mind your manners, Malfoy. It’s not kind to keep an old friend waiting.”

“Old friends,” Draco says contemplatively. “Is that what we are?”

Still, he reaches into the depths of his cloak and pulls out a scroll, tightly bound shut and hexed with various enchantments, which he dissolves with a touch of his wand before handing it to you.

“We can be whatever you want, Draco,” you tell him obsequiously, “Just as long as you keep bringing me information, that is.”

“For encounters like these,” he muses sarcastically, “Who wouldn’t?”

You flash him a sardonic smile before turning and disappearing back across your enchanted barrier and into the camp once more. You walk a few paces to the side to determine if Draco can still track your movement, but he remains riveted where he was, staring into apparently empty space. Maybe it’s just delusion as he said, but you swear he almost looks impressed.

A moment later, he turns and walks back the way he’d come. Half an hour passes before you hear the telltale crack of Apparition. He must be intentionally coming closer on foot to avoid detection by the other Death Eaters.

You may not like Draco Malfoy, but you can’t deny that you’re impressed by his willingness to help the Order as a spy. He, of all people, would be aware of the risks of his discovery. In fact, he’s likely the one responsible for torturing the would-be spies among the other Death Eaters. If Draco is found out, they will rip him to pieces. His death will be agonizing, and slow, and brutal, because it has to be. If a Malfoy can turn, then anyone can. It’s not exactly the message the Dark Lord wants to spread.

Your attention returns to the scroll in your hand. Draco risks torture and death to bring you this. You’ve taken your own risk by meeting him. This could be nothing more than nonsense, a ploy to trick you into thinking that you’ve got a spy just so Draco can return with a squad of Death Eaters. He knows where you are now. He may not know all the details of the Node, but he can probably guess. You’ve shown him exactly where the barrier is, practically handed him the key, all for the hope that this scroll contains something useful.

Still, even though it may be foolish, you can’t shake the feeling that Draco didn’t betray you after all, that he is on your side. Maybe it was because he seemed almost impressed that he couldn’t crack your spellwork. Or maybe, just maybe, there’s still a part of you that wants to believe in the other half of your greatest academic rival, and pretend that some part of your time in the halls of Hogwarts Castle has not been wholly corrupted by this great war.

It’s impossible, most likely, but you’ve seen worse. This could be better.

all tags list: @wordsarelife, @supervoldejaygent

harry potter tag list: @blondsauduun, @cameronsails, @neewtmas, @lovesanimals0000, @with-inked-solace, @sher-lokid7, @eclliipsed, @frenchgirlinlondon, @23victoria, @ilovexavierthrope, @faerieroyal

[p0orbaby]

The Day The Music Died

summary: some people have to grow up before their time. At 17, you're already juggling a career, school, and a toxic secret. It's a heavy load for anyone, but for you, it's life.

warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, heavy themes; allusions to sexual assault/prostitution, drugs and alcohol, bullying

a/n: very loosely based off this request. it's a heavy one so please don't read if any of the warnings may make you uncomfortable

word count: 1.1k

-

School.

Them.

Training.

Homework.

Match day.

Recovery.

Homework.

Him.

You were tired. So so tired. But that’s what happens when you spread yourself too thin. And because it was your own fault you couldn’t complain. No one was forcing you to do this.

Football was already enough. At only 17 you were a starter for both club and country. So what was the point in school and exams and qualifications? The point is that nothing is permanent. Ever. No matter what anyone says, permanence isn’t certain. You have to have other avenues. Just in case.

Despite it all, you need the distraction. Football from exams and exams from, everything else.

The light in the attic bedroom is on when you get home. You cut the engine of your car, lean back against the headrest and sigh into the night. You helped your team get to a cup final tonight, you should be happy.

But the light in the attic bedroom is making you nervous.

-

“How is your revision prep going?”

You pull the sleeves of your thermals down over your hands when the wind picks up. Lia does the same. You think you’d both be used to the weather by now.

Your scoff travels in the breeze, “I’m up to my eyeballs in cue cards”

Lia offers a sympathetic smile. “I hear you,” she replies, her voice carrying a hint of understanding. “It’s tough juggling everything, but you’re doing great. Sleeping okay?”

No.

“Never better”. Her eyes narrow at you. It was a trick question, you realise. She can’t have missed the dark circles under your eyes. The consistent yawns you try to hide. “I’m fine, I promise”

-

Your skin itches. It always does after. That dirty feeling of shame and embarrassment. When belts are buckled and knees are tucked under chins.

Voices are muffled through the door. Not quite loud enough to hear what’s being said, but you can guess. Same time next week.

You kick yourself for growing up.

You fall asleep in the attic.

-

“You missed a pen yesterday”

You freeze as you step out of the cubicle. Your path to the sinks blocked by three of your least favourite people.

“Things happen” you mutter, your eyes fixed on the cracked tiles beneath your feet, unwilling to meet their eyes.

But the trio only laughs in your face, their cackling echoing cruelly in the cramped confines of the toilet. Layers of makeup crack under the force of their mirth, revealing the hollow emptiness beneath. The stench of cigarettes on their breath makes your stomach churn. You need to get to chemistry.

One of them steps forward, their gaze cold and calculating. “Should get fucking dropped,” they sneer, their words like a slap to the face.

Another one joins in. “And to think you play for our country? Pathetic,” they jeer, their words like a dagger aimed straight at your heart.

You feel the sting of tears threatening to spill over, but you refuse to let them see your pain. With a shaky breath, you push past them, their laughter following you like a sinister shadow. Chemistry. English. Training.

You hoped the attic stayed dark tonight.

-

“What’s all this?” You ask, eyes wide as you enter the changing rooms.

Banners and balloons adorn the walls, and your teammates gather around with smiles on their faces. Lia steps forward, a small cake in her hands, and presents it to you with a warm smile.

“What’s all this?” you ask, your voice barely discernible over the cheers and party poppers.

Lia’s smile widens, and she gestures to the decorations around the room. “It’s for you,” she says, her tone gentle yet filled with genuine affection. “Happy birthday”

You feel a lump form in your throat as you take in the scene before you. Despite everything, despite the challenges you face both on and off the field, your teammates have gone out of their way to make your birthday special. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over as you realise just how much this means to you.

“Thank you,” you manage to choke out, your voice thick with emotion. “I…I don’t know what to say.”

Lia steps forward and pulls you into a tight hug, her warmth enveloping you like a comforting embrace. “You don’t have to say anything,” she whispers, her words a soothing balm to your already shattered soul.

-

“You did good tonight”

Your brother's words are slurred as he enters the room and slumps into the chair in the corner.

“Thanks,” you mutter, your eyes fixed on the floor as you try to make yourself as small as possible.

But your brother doesn’t seem to notice, or perhaps he doesn’t care. He leans back in the chair, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated, and takes a swig from the bottle in his hand.

“You did good tonight,” he repeats, his words slurred and disjointed, his gaze unfocused as he stares off into the distance.

“There’s almost enough money,” he mutters, his speech slurred and disjointed. “I’m getting somewhere.”

You try to block out his words, to retreat into the safety of your own thoughts, but his voice is like a relentless tide, crashing against the walls of your mind with relentless force. You know better than to believe his lies, to put any stock in his hollow promises of success and prosperity. And yet, here you are, forced to listen to his drug-fueled delusions once again.

“I’m telling you,” he continues, his words becoming increasingly animated as he gestures wildly with his hands. “Once I make this deal, we’ll be set for life. No more worries, no more struggles. Just endless riches and success”

You take a deep breath, trying to push down the rising tide of frustration that threatens to overwhelm you. “You know, I could help you,” you offer tentatively, your voice laced with desperation. “I earn enough for both of us. Whatever you need, I can cover it”

But instead of gratitude, your brother’s eyes narrow, suspicion clouding his features. “What, you think I need your charity?” he snaps, his voice tinged with bitterness. “You think I can’t take care of myself?”

You recoil at the venom in his tone, the hurt evident in his words cutting you to the core. “No, I just…” you falter, struggling to find the right words to explain yourself.

But your brother cuts you off with a dismissive wave of his hand, his attention already drifting elsewhere. “Forget it,” he mutters, his voice growing distant as he sinks deeper into his drug-induced haze.

Happy birthday to you.

[livefastwritetrash]

I see a lot of speculation that the “Infamous Puppy Debacle of ‘94” was a matter of Edwin getting jealous over Charles’s attention.

Consider instead.

Edwin follows that line up with “the living are MESSY.” So I put it to you.

An alternate perspective on the Infamous Puppy Debacle of ‘94:

-

Be Charles Rowland, circa 1994. It’s been 5 years since you’ve had to think about eating or drinking or sleeping or using the restroom or any sort of bodily function really. Your latest client moved on but he left his sweet little golden retriever behind with no one to care for her.

You could care for her.

You always wanted a dog. Dad never had to say no because you had never asked. You never wanted to bring one around knowing they might get hurt. There’s no one to hurt them now.

She comes back to the office. You drag an old sofa in there to give her a bed fit for a queen. You gather up any ball-shaped objects around you aren’t particularly attached to. She’s partial to the tiny black and white football that’s enchanted to always roll back to you. A proper Manchester United fan.

Edwin isn’t happy of course. But then again he rarely is. The dog will be as good for him as she is for you, surely. He could do with someone to care for him with even half of the kindness he shows others. Even if it’s usually through that layer of ice you’ve slowly been chipping away at for want of the friend inside.

Edwin’s budged up nice and cozy with the dog on the couch by that very evening, and you’re feeling quite proud of yourself for your excellent judgement.

An urgent case arises before the sun is up, bothering no one because it’s not like either of you were asleep. If anything it saved you from another devastating loss at the hands of Colonel Mustard in the study with the lead pipe. You tell your new football fan to be a good girl while you’re gone and dip out through the mirror.

It takes longer than expected. Evening is falling again when you and Edwin finally catch your breath in a local park, safe for the moment and free to return to home base. In the whirlwind of the day, you can’t help but feel you've forgotten something…

A jogger runs by with a dog on a leash. Oh.

Another person with a dog pulls up short. They produce a plastic baggy and stoop to collect their pet's leavings. Oh no.

On a bench across the way, a dog owner consoles their bullpup that dinner will be forthcoming as soon as they get home. The stout little monster ignores them, intent on rendering the log in its mouth into a million strips of fiber.

You share a look with Edwin and book it to the nearest mirror.

Being a ghost has its perks. For one, you’ve never been happier to be free of any olfactory senses as you enter the office. There are puddles and plops and any number of messes you try not to look too close at. Edwin’s meticulous case files are in shreds, boxes toppled, tops riddled with tooth marks and slobber.

Your modest but valuable collection of artifacts and other magical ephemera has become a jumbled mass of chew toys on every surface in the room, some being very nearly ingested before rejected.

Perhaps the only edible item in there had been a bag of magic jelly babies, and there were a few piles looking suspiciously sparkly and wet that spoke to where that ended up.

And then there’s your girl, actively tearing into a couch cushion in search of more food as you take in the carnage. She raises her head to greet you, tongue lolling, tail wagging, and she makes an excited dash across the room. Straight for Edwin.

Before you can so much as reach for him, he’s on his back with a wet squelch. She’s ruining his perfect hair and perfect clothes and perfect face with clumsy paws and a drooling a tongue, until he finally remembers he doesn’t have to endure this. He sinks into the floor and out of sight, catching your eye as he does so in a look that could freeze a lesser man’s heart but mostly just makes you feel a little guilty.

In the minutes that follow, you calm her down and dig out a magic can of steak and kidney pudding that had always refilled itself since the days of the Blitz. Not that food was much use to ghosts, but Edwin had been in the midst of a world war fixation ever since he learned there was a second one.

The dog looks so happy as you pour it out on the floor, and you fluff her ears hoping to make her as cute as possible as Edwin’s footsteps echo in the hall.

He enters through the front door this time, still dripping in drool with a rip in the shoulder of his fine jacket and one knee sock scrunched low on his ankle with a few deep runs in the yarn. You think the tousled hair suits him at least, though he doesn’t look in the mood to receive a compliment, so you wisely refrain from making that particular quip.

Instead you kneel down and turn on the charm, tugging those puppy jowls up in a grin to match your own, going for the sympathy plea. But it seems 50-year-old magical steak and kidney pudding didn’t exactly sit well, and she immediately makes the most horrid wrenching noises you’ve ever heard before spewing all over the hardwood. She takes a couple interested sniffs and then goes in for seconds, and honestly yeah, maybe you were a little hasty in thinking you could be a dog guy.

It doesn’t take long to find the client’s adult daughter and anonymously drop off the dog she’s been seeking since it disappeared from her father’s flat overnight. Maybe you’d got a bit ahead of yourself on that count too.

It takes ages to get the office back in shape, and Edwin makes you do most of the scrubbing because it’s “good practice” for interacting with physical objects, but mostly it just makes your hands itch. The case files get severely simplified and moved to a vertical filing system, and you feel a bit bad for it but at least that’s less paperwork for you.

Overall you don’t regret your brief foray into pet ownership, but it’s a relief to know there’s no one relying on you for their every need at all hours of the day. Edwin is attempting to retrieve something from under the couch and holds out a hand, so you cross the room to move a billiards stick about a foot nearer to his reach.

He scoops up whatever it is before you can see, but that probably means it’s none of your business anyway. If he seems a little colder in the days following the dog debacle, you assume it’s lingering annoyance for all the trouble she caused. Fortunately an interesting case sweeps through soon enough, and all is forgiven in the wake of a good mystery.

Edwin has always been the observant one. So it’s no surprise it takes you a few weeks to notice that a new object has taken up a place of honor on his desk. How about that. You look over to where he’s resting on the couch, nose in a book, cushion tucked to his chest with several prominent stitches marring the upholstery. He resolutely does not look back.

You smile to yourself and turn back to the new desk ornament, a familiar articulated wooden hand collected from one case or another awhile back. Only now it’s holding a tiny checkered football marred with punctures by canine teeth.

Huh. Five years in, and you think you know a chap. Maybe that layer of ice didn’t have far to go after all.

—

And THAT was the infamous puppy debacle of ‘94.

🐾

[dabisbratz]

READ BETWEEN THE LINES — eren jaeger x male reader

w.c: 5.6k

warning: semi-public sex (library), college! au, jock!reader, nerd!eren, bottom reader, exhibitionism, praise/degradation, fingering, riding, mild jealousy, pining, creampie, panty (boxer?)stuffing, mention of ahegao from eren, overstim, edging, oral, dumbification, **feminization,** cum play, unprotected sex, teasing, dirty talk.

a/n: really recommend reading the prequel before this one!

You’re running late. Actually— that’s a major understatement.

You’ve got a soft spot for parties. A close second to the football field and its goals, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. They may leave you disoriented and thick tongued, but they’re special. Especially when they’re yours. The two places you get to truly dominate, to run down an opponent and crush their dreams of ever making it further than this. So why you’re dreading them now. . . it’s hard to say why. It’s complicated.

But you’ve got a few guesses.

You woke up late, fatigue pulling at your limbs as you sank into your mattress and nuzzled your face deeper and deeper into your pillow. If you’re being honest, the previous night was full of bass boosted music, alcohol, and tabs of something that absolutely should not have been mixed with liquor. Foxy, was it? Whatever the concoction, it was built specifically to knock you straight out, face to pillow and body to mattress until the following morning and then some.

And through it all, the hallucinogens and warped vision, you couldn’t help but think of those green eyes— blazing emeralds covered by a sheen layer of glass and plastic. It’s been a week, yet that chocolate brown hair that stops just short of the base of a fair neck and falls just below the end of round spectacles is haunting you. It’s him who left you disoriented and wobbly on your feet. Him, who you’d imagined the soft lips of as they traced the skin of your throat and downward. Eren, that stupid nerd with a stupidly big dick who fucked you stupid and left you to pick up the pieces of your broken. . . situationship.

Okay— maybe it wasn’t him who left. The second you woke up with the realization of what happened (he fucked you and recorded it, had the gall to send it to your girlfriend, for fuck’s sake!) you fled, ran straight out the building and through campus until your lungs were on fire and your heart in your throat. You ran until you couldn’t, until your calves ached and your thighs had just as much throbbing to match. Until sweat dripped down your nose and stained your jersey. Until you couldn’t hear over the sound of your heart pounding against your eardrums. Fuck, you’d left the place stained in your own cum.

With a groan you bury your face into the pillow, growing warmer by the second as your hands curl into fists that slam down into the air mattress. If anyone saw anything that day they certainly haven't mentioned it, but you’re sure with the popularity you hold it wouldn’t be brought up unless you bring it up.

So you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place, really.

Joints crackling as you stand, a yawn rips through your throat and floats along behind you until your legs have carried you to the bathroom. Jean left the dorm before the sun could fully rise, probably to get in a few morning reps in and, if you’re being honest, it’s fucked up your time perception. That’s right, not the foxy or hennessy or even the beer. It was Jean. And worst of all it was Eren.

“Fuck you.” You grunt into your toothpaste, squinting at your reflection in the mirror as the bathroom’s fluorescent lights shoot straight through your retinas. You spit it out as if he can hear it, angry and venomous and not at all hesitant.

Walking through campus doesn’t lighten your mood. Your clothes cling uncomfortably— they’re Jean’s, after all— much too tight around your thighs and pressing against your chest with every sharp intake of breath. Your backpack is much too heavy, weighing down your shoulders until you walk with an uncomfortable hunch. Though you suppose it’s an exact physical representation of how you feel.

And if that’s not enough to test your limits, you end up bumping into someone who doesn’t know how to watch where they’re going. With an irritated growl you push them to the side with the help of your sports bag, nearly knocking them straight off their feet. Flashes of blond swim through your vision, bouncing off sunlight as it sways to and fro.

As an act of retaliation, nimble hands press into the plush flesh of your bicep, pushing you back just enough to open the gap between the two of you.

“Watch where you—”

“Armin!” You know that voice. It’s nasally and thick, even gains a husky tone to it when it’s whispered. It’s warm in your ears when it’s laced with praise, and cold when it’s spiked with the exact opposite. You know that voice.

So you run.

You’ve never considered yourself a coward. There’s a lot of things you are, but cowardly isn’t one of them. You’re one of the best, if not the best star players on your team, after all. Your hands ball into fists, clenched tightly as you walk into the occupied classroom, the only space you’d never really claimed as your domain.

It’s stupid, really, the hold he has on you. You’ve heard his voice and now you can’t think. As if you’re drunk all over again, you’re locked in a room with him while music blares through the crack beneath the door. Like you’re on your knees again, your face buried in his skin as you breathe in his scent. Woodsy and sweaty, almost as overpowering as his pulsing cock throbbing against the tightness of your throat. The fuzzy feeling has followed you for weeks, in the back of your mind as you complete mindless tasks and conversations.

You can’t help but let your mind wander, reverting back to that same fogginess that had the questions of last week’s pop quiz distorting before your very eyes.

(“Open,” It’s more of a command than anything, Eren’s very hands on, his fingers slipping into your mouth to pull at the corners of your mouth. Your tongue covers your teeth, your mouth watering as his salty fingertips graze your tongue. His other hand is busy working at the head of his cock, twisting smooth circles over the slit until it crashes down against your tongue. Again, and again, and again. “Good boy.”)

It’s hard to care, even when you’re handed back the test with disappointing results. A shiver racks through your body when a hand is placed on your shoulder, and your nostrils are overloaded with the smell of aftershave and old spice. Connie.

“I don’t know how you expect to stay on the team with grades like that, if you need a tutor. . .” He mumbles, light, golden eyes flickering past your shoulder to avoid head on eye-contact. Tests have never been your forté. It’s exactly why you’re in college solely based on a football scholarship. “I know I’m not one to talk, but—”

“Man, shut up,” You grumble, humiliation spreading through your body as you shift your weight from one foot to another. Crisp sheets of paper crumple between your fingers, balled up until the vermilions fifty percent is tossed into a nearby trash bin. “No one asked you.”

“Look, Jean knows. . . a guy. Says he’s kinda an asshole but,” He makes a motion with his hand in your general direction, chopping through the air. “So are you, so. You should get along just fine.”

The library is peaceful. A calm, comforting silence that’s paired with the company of only three people (you, your tutor, and the librarian— who, if you’re being honest, is sleeping more than she’s working). It’s nice like this. The air is still with tranquility, the only sound tiptoeing around your ears belonging to the sardined books adorning an array of shelves. It’s a stark contrast to the field— usually accompanied by excited screams, whistles, and running feet— but you don’t entirely mind it. It’s a pleasant change in scenery.

That, and it’s curing your hangover headache.

Venturing further into the library, you peek over the arrangements of bookshelves and desks. . . past the rows of computers and technology stations sits your tutor. Sat cozy in the corner of the room, he truly chose the most secluded area of the library. Good. His hair is a warm shade of brown, reaching barely above his neck, and with his back turned to you it’s hard to make out his features, but you swear that shirt he’s wearing looks familiar.

Oh, what the—

“Fuck.” His head snaps back, confirming it is that stupid fucking shirt, and he is that stupid fucking nerd. Devoid of any bodily fluids at that, four eyes had the audacity to wear it out again. As if it wasn’t recognizable, as if he hadn’t used it to clean his own cum off your body. You’re ready to turn on your heels, completely ignore the gnawing in your stomach that grows with every passing second you spend looking at him, ready to run and never look back.

“You look good,” His forest green eyes rake up and down your body, back straightening as he adjusts his glasses. You hate how quick his voice sends shivers up your spine, how it turns your legs to jelly and keeps you frozen in place. His gaze is intense, heated as he pats the seat next to him, fingertips brushing against the glossy cover of his hentai. You clear your throat, loud in comparison to the silence, but the brunette seems unphased. “Sit.”

You do, but not without collecting the manga and placing them on the farest end of the table. He seems to get a kick out of that, huffing hair out his nose as you push the books away like a picky child. Eren’s arm covers his scribbling, but you don’t care enough to press the secrecy. Instead, you unzip your backpack and pull out your laptop. He makes a sound high in his throat, something like a question, as he takes hold of the leg of your chair and pulls you closer.

Right. You forgot about his unprecedented amount of strength.

“Eren—” You start, but the sound of his name on your lips already has him groaning. Heat blooms in your stomach, tingling down to your crotch at the sound, and it’s almost like he’s fucking you all over again. So deep, something you’ve never had before. His cock kissed your insides, left you sloppy and open and empty.

“Eren,” You repeat, much whinier than intended, the name crackling as the man’s big palm squeezes your thigh. “Focus,” his response is noncommittal, a half hum that melts into a breathy laugh and quirk of his thick brow. “Studying. Tutoring. That shit.”

“Missed these tits,” He completely ignores you, instead opting to run his hands beneath the cotton fabric of your shirt. His hands snake up your tummy and shoot straight toward your chest, squeezing the flesh until your nipples harden against his palms. “Wanted to slide my cock between them the second I saw you.”

“They’re not tits.” You rasp, warmth rising in your face as your legs instinctively spread apart. He was right, you are a whore for his cock, and even the thought of getting it makes you braindead. You have the urge to get on your knees, to strip yourself of your clothing and present all your holes to him, spreading yourself wide open with your fingers.

“Aren’t they, though?” He lifts your shirt over your chest, the fabric bunching under your armpits, and you have no other choice but to watch the mounds of flesh spill from between his fingers— he’s got you in a tight grip, pushing your pecs together as he runs his pink tongue over his lips. It's humiliating, the lack of a fight you put up. There’s a weak tug at his wrists, but you’re barely making the effort to actually move him, whines heavy on your tongue. It’s hard, hard, to form the words you want, so you opt for open-mouthed whines.

Eren pushes you to your knees, watching you fall with glassy eyes.

You watch the brunette squeeze at his cock, his large hand sliding into a fist that clamps down around his shiny slit, then slowly back down to the thick, veiny shaft. You want his cock inside, stretching past your rim and splitting you open, you want his cock sliding inside until he fills you up with his sticky, hot cum. He spits down onto it, catching strays that land in your chin. His saliva is thick and runny, beading at the tip until it’s smeared down to the base. Your mouth waters.

Pulling yourself forward, you press your chest together until a small, pathetic excuse of a crease is formed between them. Eren coos, his thick eyebrows pinched together as his glasses nearly fall off his face, “What'd your girlfriend say? Now that she knows you get your pussy fucked just like hers.”

He guides his cock between the plush skin, taptaptap-ing the head of his cock along your nipples so his precum smears across the sensitive skin. It’s shiny now, smeared across your chest and downright filthy. Mixed with his cum, you’re sure you look like a cheap whore, one who’s been tied down and written on for free-use. If Eren had a marker you’re sure he’d write something on your chest, something vulgar enough to have your cock jumping.

“Oh,” He moans, slick squelching erupting from his cock as he slides it between your pecs— your tits, he’d call them, and you can’t help but open your mouth to catch the tip whenever it slides just above your chin. “Oh, fuck. That’s it.”

Eren’s cock is curved, with a dusted pink tip that throbs against your tongue with every forward motion. You can’t help but drool on it a little, thoughts leaving your brain the more he takes the opportunity to fuck his cock between your tits and into your hot, tight mouth.

“She said—” You’re cut off by your own gagging, his thick cock being jammed down the tightness of your throat. You can feel his dick throb, slow and heavy as a bulge appears in your throat with every slow slide in, and every slow slide out. He’s fucking your throat, burying your teary face into his deep pubes as your tongue runs along the thickest vein pulsing on his shaft. Eren’s so fucking big, you can’t breathe. Though you’re not sure you want to.

“Always talkin’ about your stupid ‘girlfriend’, what if I just made you my girlfriend instead? Huh?”You stare up at him with wet eyelashes, batting your eyes as he stares down at you. You can’t exactly make eye contact, not with the fog clouding his glasses, but the feeling of his cock weighing down your tongue along with his bitter pre filling your mouth, you don’t mind all too much.

“M’npph amphh grrmph.” You huff around a mouthful of cock, pants heavy on your drooling tongue. You can’t help but gag, bubbles of saliva pooling around his balls and your chin— it’s messy, it’s nasty, but it feels fucking good. Your dick aches, tingly and sticky and all too needy for your liking.

“Yeah, you’re not,” It’s like he knows exactly what you said, growling as vibrations are sent straight to his cock. It pops between your lips, then sinks back down onto the warmth of your pecs. Not nearly as good as fucking your hole, but it’s still slick and soft. It’s still fucking good. “Got a real warm pussy on you, though.”

“Don’t—”

“You wanna know how I know?” Eren cups your face with both his hands, bobbing your pretty head up and down around the head of his cock. Like you’re nodding on it, he savors the sight of his precum being smeared along your lips. “Cause I’ve fucked it.”

“Rennie!” You gasp, reverting back to that sweet, softheaded boy he’d turned you into a few weeks ago. A spark lights in his eyes, and before you know it he’s pulling you up by your throat, and stripping you naked. A thin trail of precum connects itself to the tip of your cock, sticky and wet enough for Eren’s hand to wrap around.

You see stars.

“Waitwaitwait,” You gurgle, moans caught in your throat as your knees buckle and fall straight into Eren’s lap. He’s wrapped up in your thighs, the thickness resting at his sides as you buck your hips into his tight fist. His hand is slick with spit, only moistening as he drools out another layer. The brunette lets it fall from his tongue, slow and thick, then rubs it into the head of your cock with quick, rapid motions. It’s too much, tears well in your eyes as you babble, “Slow, slow, I can’t—”

“Shh,” Eren’s free hand clasps over your mouth, warm against your sweaty skin. You can’t help but pant into it, your eyebrows pinched as you look down at the man with wobbly eyes. His smile is lopsided, eyes all too wide through the fog of his glasses as he speeds up his hand, twisting and curling and squeezing until your thighs violently tremble and your drooling mouth goes dry. “Don’t want anyone to hear you. What’ll they think then? The school’s best boy’s a slut?”

There’s a quick shake to your head, fast and delirious as you grind against his hand, his cockhead bobbing against your own through the fly of his pants. The silky, stickiness is driving you over the edge, and your eyes begin to roll back. Your moans are muffled and garbled against Eren’s big hand, but the way your cock twitches and leaks tells the nerd everything he needs to know.

The high is right there, you’re at the very edge, with Eren’s slick hand sliding his cock along yours, the thick head towering over your own, and the wet sloshing sounds so fucking loud when you bounce along his thighs, chasing after it. Sparks fly straight down to your dick, tingling along the shaft and pooling all the way down to your hole— it’s sticky now, wet with the mixture of precum that’s pooling between your bodies. He strokes whiny, desperate sounds out of you, precum pooling around his fist and— holy shit, you’re gonna cum.

“Rennie,” You drool, your head falling forward into his shoulder. It’s almost embarrassing how fast. How hard you’re twitching, how your little hole is spasming around nothing. You’re so close. “M’gonna cum, gonna cum, ‘Ren. S’your hand, s’cause—”

So. Fucking. Clo—

“No.” His hand leaves just as you’re ready to burst, cutting off a stream of sticky ropes before they can shoot, and your balls tighten with need. It’s not fair, you’ve been such a good boy! You sat there and took it, maybe you whined and cried a little, but you were good. You feel yourself shaking your head, desperate. “Did I tell you you could cum?”

“But. . . But I deserve it, ‘Ren. M’such a good boy, was such a good boy!” Tears stream down your face, collecting in Eren’s shirt as he rubs smooth circles into your back. He shushes you in a sweet voice, but you can feel his thick cock throbbing at the sight of your tears.

“Good boys don’t make messes,” He tuts, feigning irritation as he pushes you back so he can show off the messiness of his fingers. The long digits are covered in spit and pre, slowly running down his shiny hands and dripping down his wrists. “They clean them.”

His fingers are plunged into your mouth, bitter and sticky, but you can’t help but lap it up, eyes fluttering closed as you moan around the digits. They don’t reach as deep as his cock, don’t leave your throat bulging around the shape or curve of them, and they’re nowhere near as thick of a mouthful, but it’s just as good. Just as warm, just as heavy, just as strong and salty.

“Just like that,” You’re gagging for it now, Eren’s lips parting with open-mouthed pants as he struggles to watch your pretty, pouty mouth wrap around his knuckles. He has to swallow down his own drool, reaching deeper into your mouth every so often so your body jerks back as your throat tightens and constricts. You may not be a good boy, but you’re a damn good slut. “You look fuckin’ stupid. It’s a good thing you were made to take dick, no wonder you need a tutor.”

Eren’s hand slips out your mouth, a breathy laugh escaping his pink lips when you absentmindedly follow after it despite the drool starting to run down your chin. He’s scouring his bag for something, and only when he finds it do you notice how much his cock is weeping, achy as it smears pre along his t-shirt. Lube, sticky and stringy as he pours it into his hand and warms it up with smooth circles against his fingers. He’s pushing you up like it’s nothing, your knees by his sides until his fingers are poking and prodding at your sensitive, puckered rim.

Your squeals sound like heaven. High in your throat and dragged out as your pretty hole eagerly takes in his ring finger, clamping around it and sucking him deeper into your velvety walls. So fucking good, you can’t help but rock back against it, shameless and devoid of any other thoughts. It’s a chant of cockcockcock going off in your head, the faster you take his fingers the faster you get to his dick. The lube leaves behind thick strands, when Eren’s knuckle deep you can hear them froth between the globes of your ass, and as he pulls the finger out sloooow it gushes right out.

“Wanna fuck this pussy full,” Your breath catches in your throat, and the thought of him referring to your hole as a pussy has your brain completely and utterly empty. “Wanna fuck it till you’re shaking. Missed this cute little cunt, missed fucking you stupid.”

You can’t take it.

“Did it miss me, baby?” You can’t take it but you’re nodding, bouncing on his lap and doing all the work to fuck your self full of his fingers. You like it when he takes what he wants, fucks you stupid and uses his unsuspecting strength to take it from you. Like he fucking owns it. “Hm? Did your slutty boy cunt miss me?”

“Yeah, yeah. . .” It’s hard to stay quiet, not when his fingers are pistoning into that special, sweet bundle of nerves that keep you stupid and cockdrunk.

“Missed you, Rennie.”

“What missed me?” There’s an edge to his voice, darker and deeper.

“My. . .” You pout, shaking your head despite the shock of pleasure running up your spine when his free hand presses you down into his fingers. Your vision goes white for a moment, completely blinded as you sniffle out, “My boy cunt, Rennie.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s what you think with, isn’t it?” He flicks your forehead, a boyish grin spreading across his handsome face. It’s annoying how endearing his sad excuse of a mustache is, how it has your heart racing. “You let your pussy do all the thinking, that’s why you always end up taking my cock.”

Yeah. . . Yeah. It’s true, probably, because when you’re around Eren none of your thoughts are coherent. You barely even notice the slick palms rubbing smooth circles into the globes of your ass, the emptiness of your winking hole that clenches around nothing but air. You’re sure you look like a mess, skin slick with sweat, drool and precum and tears covering your face. . . dripping down onto your chest. He’s made a real mess out of you.

“Sit still,” He moans, hushed and close to your ear. His cock slides dangerously close to your entrance, sticky lube sliding along with it and connecting his tip to your boy pussy. He feels so big, so long and thick when he taps it against your hole, barely breaching the tiny gape of your rim. “Let me deeper inside that cunt. Please, baby? Wanna get it all creamy and sloppy with my cum, wanna feel it clamp down just like it did that first time.”

“Uh-huh!” You hiccup, uncontrollable tears streaming down your face as you reach back to spread yourself wide, presenting yourself to his dick. You don’t miss the groan you earn in return, deep and shaky as the nerd takes the opportunity to slip right in, past the burning stretch of your fluttering ‘cunt’ that sucks him deeper and deeper into your gummy walls. “Wan’ it. . . Wan’ it deeper, ‘Ren.”

Just as warm and wet as he remembers is, lube gushes and trickles out with every deliberate, deep thrust forward. The slurp of his cock goes straight to your balls, tightening as you whine like a bitch for it. Eren’s grip goes tight in your ass, keeping it spread as he spears you on his cock again, and again, and again. It’s more menuevering than bouncing, through your braindead haze you start to think, maybe he’s just too big to bounce on, it’s easier if he fucks into like a fleshlight. It’s easier if you don’t think about it, you’re not meant to, after all. It’s easier if you melt on his cock and take it.

“C’mere,” Your fingers are enveloped with the warmth of his own, the digits molding each of your hands into peace signs. Your mouth opens and closes, akin to a fish, but just as you’re about to form the words he cuts you off. “So cute. . . Could you stick out your tongue for me too?”

You should know by now, it’s not a genuine question. The saltiness of Eren’s fingers pressing into your tongue has you drooling, wet and sloppy as he forces your tongue out over your bottom lip. Watching the movement— eyes crossed with the pink of your tongue out on display— you look like a character straight out his favorite hentai.

“Like a real-life ahegao!” Eren pulls out his own phone this time, the camera in your fucked out face as he gives an experimental bounce to his hips. With a tiny ‘uh!’ you follow suit, your sweet boy pussy clenching and fluttering around his thick, heavy cock. You’d be thankful for the hand holding onto your hips had it not been there to keep you from squirming off his dick.

“That’s it,” he purrs, just as unashamed as you remember him to be. “Go on, tell the camera what you are.”

Your eyebrows knit in delayed confusion, Eren’s hips jolting up to send shockwaves up your spine. You’re pushed forward, wet clapping of your ass crashing down onto his thighs snapping you back into a dazed, foggy state. Cut off by a few breathy moans, you whine, “M’your fucktoy, your bitch.”

“That’s right. You’re my bitch. My hole to fuck, my hole to use. Tell me you love it, say ‘I love your cock, Rennie.’ ”

He forces your tongue back out, pinching the muscle between two fingers so you sound as fucked up as you look, gurgling and stuttering a sad excuse of, ‘love it s’much, wan’ feel it f’weeks, s’good t’my holes, Rennie!’ and it’s cruel how his mocking laughter nearly makes you cum on the spot.

“Armin’s part of the photography club, did you know that?” The name rings a bell, but there’s not much to say when you're drooling all over your own chest and panting like a puppy. “That blond you bumped into earlier? Yeah, him.” Your mouth forms a small ‘o’ around your tongue, pretty eyes widening. “Funny thing is, right after that he told me all the angles of you he wanted.”

You can’t contain the squeals and squeaks that leave your mouth when the brunette starts pistoning his hips upward, a bruising grip on your hips that only gets harder as he grinds you down against his cock. He’s filling you up so good, his balls slapping against your ass with each rushed, rough thrust that has your mind scrambled just as much as your guts. The camera is right in your face, zoomed in and focused on the mess on your handsome face.

“Go a—hmmff—head, baby,” Eren moans, and it’s his turn to drool. “Keep fucking yourself stupid on my, haah, cock.”

“M’sorry, Armin,” Your body bounces and convulses, eyes crossed as the shaky camera remains in your face. So cute, Eren had no intentions to share the video. Not with anyone, and certainly not with Armin, but your extra effort to apologize and take his cock as some sort of atonement really spurs him on. “Please… don’t stop, I’ll be good, m’a good boy, promise!”

“God, yeah, you are. A good, dumb slut. So much sweeter when all you can think about is cock.” He tries to ignore the fluttering in his stomach when you giggle around your tongue, sweet and ditzy. He tries to ignore it, but it’s hard when you’re absentmindedly bouncing back on his dick with no hands, both raised to your chest in peace signs. You’re a walking wet dream.

“Please lemme cum, pleasepleaseplease,” Your babbling falls on deaf ears, Eren’s hands are focused on stroking your cock raw, till your brain goes numb and you’re surrounded by sparks. When you lean away you fall onto his cock, but buck your hips forward and you’re being teased by his skilled fingers. His palm presses into your slit, rubbing circles into it until your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, and your mouth flies open in a silent scream. “Wanna cum on your cock, wanna get it sticky, wanna—ohh, feel it throb inside.”

“Cum with me,” He growls, glasses slipping off his face and onto the floor as his eyes briefly shut. You can feel it, the tightening of his balls, the way his dick aches and pulses inside you, the way his cum is starting to kiss your insides and spurt straight onto that small bundle of nerves— fuck, it’s so deep. His thrusts are erratic and sloppy, thick rope after thick rope frothing around his shaft as he fucks it deeper inside. You never want it to stop, not the groaning or moaning, not the filthy sounds, not the cum filling up your hole till you can’t move. “That’s it, wanna feel this pussy cum on my dick, give it t’me. Give it to Rennie.”

A searing spiral of pressure grows in your stomach, filling with light as you bear down on his cock and choke on your moans. For a minute you think you’ve passed out, everything going dark as you spurt all over both yourself and Eren, globs of cum spraying hard onto your chest and splashing back on the brunette’s chin. He lets you ride it out, offering tiny thrusts upward to satiate the erratic spasming of your hole, and places a few chaste kisses to your messy jaw.

“Shh, not done yet,” It’s cute how whiny you get, pliant in his hands as he lifts your trembling body off his cock with a hiss. He’s careful to replace his cock with his fingers though, twisting and thrusting them forward to collect his cum. You keep him so warm, he misses the feeling of your mushy hole around him already. “Need to make sure you get it.”

You barely put up a fight, letting him place you on the table. You’re on top of his manga— that and his notebooks, your laptop, and cheat sheets. That’s right, you came here to go over questions for your next test, but. . .

Eren’s busy picking up your boxers, not even bothering to wipe off his glasses (they’ve fallen into the wet patch of pre, and it’s obvious it’s coating the lense of the right side of his glasses) as he puts them on. His hair is disheveled, he looks thoroughly fucked, but you’re sure you look worse.

“Fuck,” He groans, breathless as he watches your fingers absentmindedly circle your entrance, globs of cum sticking to your fingertips. That explains it, the sharp shocks shooting straight up to your stomach. He takes a deep breath, tucking himself back into his pants. Part of you is glad he stayed clothed, if anyone walked in they’d see him first. “Maybe you already do.”

The questions die on your tongue when he’s removing your fingers, cum gushing from your puffy hole and spilling onto the table. You don’t miss the way Eren curses, somewhat frustrated, as he bunches up the fabric and slips it past your rim. It feels. . . good, pressed right against your prostate and suddenly you’re wailing again, kicking your feet with overstimulation.

“No, no, no,” You sob, clenching around the soft fabric. It’s too soft, like silk is sliding around your entrance, rubbing the area raw and sensitive. “Too much!”

“Shh.”

The shaking of your head ceases with Eren’s strong hand on your jaw, and you stop yourself when his lips press against your own. Warm and soft, somewhat chapped— but plush nonetheless. He tastes different than last time, he’s sweeter now. Like an energy drink, or a saccharine sour candy. He’s much more gentle with his kisses than his hands, which shift you around until he’s half-assedly got you clothed, just barely enough fabric pulled on your skin to cover your chest and legs.

“Sit on my lap, we’ll read a couple questions and then do some peer revision, yeah?”

Something tells you he doesn’t plan to get much reading done.

[malk1ns]

In the newer photo of geno and Nikita at the steelers game, geno's shoes have interesting velcor straps... looks like maybe his dom (sid) likes to keep geno in casual straps all the time as a possessiveness thing... yum...

so true, mystery caller. photo reference here. (for the record these are the shoes geno's wearing, but it's much more fun that they're restraints instead)

for this one i am removing nikita from the equation. sorry nikita, you're a cute kid and your dad loves you, but i can't do kink-adjacent fics with children involved even on the periphery, it makes my brain shy away like a skittish pony.

Sid doesn’t say yes to Geno going to the Christmas Day Steelers game with the rest of the guys until Geno’s sobbing so hard he’s barely coherent, choking the words out through a throat rough and swollen from where he’d taken Sid’s dick earlier.

Sid had told him to ask nicely, after all, and one of the nicest things about Geno is his mouth. And if Sid had held him down until he gagged, pulling back barely long enough to let Geno gasp in a breath before fucking into his throat again, well, Sid’s a hedonist who believes in enjoying his things to the fullest.

He does say yes eventually, though. G loves football, loves getting together with the guys in the most expensive suite at Heinz Field and yelling his head off after a few beers. And Sid likes giving Geno things he loves…provided, of course, he’s earned it.

Nursing Sid’s dick to hardness and then taking it with no complaints, mouth soft and throat open for as hard as Sid wanted to fuck his face, hands lax at his sides without even a hint of creeping towards his own groin to touch himself, definitely qualifies as earning it.

It’s too cold for Geno to wear his Polamalu jersey, even up in the suites. Sid lets Geno shower on his own in favor of digging through their closet, picking out base layers and a cream sweatshirt that makes Geno’s skin glow.

He also pulls out a set of ankle cuffs.

They’d been in fashion over a decade ago, with designers rushing out styles and fits to suit all types of pants from casual to white-tie formal, but they’re a little passé now, a little dated. Sid doesn’t care, though; the nature of their jobs and the time they need to spend apart during the summers to fulfill professional obligations mean that Geno can’t always wear a traditional collar or even wrist cuffs. Sid suggested Geno go without for convenience’s sake once; the resulting tantrum had earned him a month without orgasm and nights spent chained at the foot of Sid’s bed like a dog. He’s never asked Geno to go in public without some sign of ownership again, though, and the ankle restraints suit them both.

Sid even lets Geno dress himself for once, but when Geno makes to pick the cuffs up Sid slaps him, smiling when Geno’s mouth drops and his pupils expand. “Mine,” he says, snatching the cuffs and kneeling at Geno’s feet, biting back a smirk when Geno gasps in an unsteady breath.

He takes his time snapping the restraints into place, pulling them down over Geno’s white shoes so they’ll stand out and yanking them tighter than will be comfortable over the duration of an NFL game. By the time he gets back to his feet, wincing as his knees crack, Geno’s practically in a swoon, swaying in place with a dazed look on his face.

This is why Sid made Geno start getting ready earlier than was strictly necessary. He lets Geno suck his toes while he fixes his hair, bringing him back up when the clock says they really can’t wait any longer to leave or they’ll be late.

During the game, Sid hangs in the back of the suite. He doesn’t like being at the railing where the cameras can catch him; he likes football well enough, but missing out on individual plays in favor of having a little privacy for once is a fair exchange. He watches Geno instead.

Geno’s in fine form, jumping and screaming with every bit of forward progress and booing loudly whenever the Chiefs score. He and Ricky cook up some drinking game that they rope most of the guys into, which Sid pretends not to notice.

Karl catches on, though, elbowing Sid when Geno glances over his shoulder before tossing back the rest of his beer in response to…something that happened on the field. “Getting soft, Crosby?” he says, but he’s teasing, so Sid doesn’t bother to posture back.

He takes a small sip of his own beer, catching Geno’s eyes again and smiling. Geno’s body language practically melts in response, head tilting to one side invitingly. “Nah, he knows how long his leash is,” he replies, nudging Karl back. “If he pulls, it’s because he wants to choke.”

[midnightfictionlibrary]

One Whole Year - Jamie Tartt x Fem!Reader

One Whole Year - Jamie Tartt x Fem!Reader 

Content : fluff fluff fluff

Word Count : 595

Summary : One whole year with Jamie Tartt, and you receive the best gift of all. 

Based on Anon Request : Hi, I just had the idea of a Jamie Tartt imagine where for he and his girlfriend's 1 year anniversary, the boys get Jamie's girl a shirt that says "Jamie Tartt fan club" as a gag gift but she underratedly loves it? 

A/N : I hope I did what you had in mind justice, anon! This was so fun to write. Not as long as some of my other fics, but still sweet and fluffy <3 As always, please like and reblog if you’d like to see more. 

You’re flicking through the photos on your phone, amazed at just how many Jamie has made it into the past year, and you smile to yourself, thinking back on how shy he was when the two of you made it official. 

Jamie leans over the top of the couch, planting a kiss on the top of your head and nodding towards your open phone. “Lookin’ at how fit I am, yeah?” 

You playfully roll your eyes and reach up, catching his cheeks in your hand. “Why would I need pictures for that when I’ve got the real thing right here?” 

Even with his face squished in your hand, Jamie still manages to stick his tongue out, that little display to show he knows he’s the shit. You laugh, pulling him down to meet you for a chaste kiss. 

“Enough of all that, we’re meeting the boys today.” Jamie scolds playfully, standing straight again. You look up at him, admiring all his angles and curves, wondering how you got to be so lucky with such a handsome man. You stand, intertwining your fingers with Jamie’s as you come around the couch, and he pulls you into a crushing hug, but uses his fingers to lightly caress your face. “Happy anniversary, love.”

A soft smile finds its way to your lips and your eyes flutter. “Happy Anniversary, J.” 

“Oi! There they are!” You hear a voice yell as you walk into Ola’s. Isaac’s face is spread in a wide grin, Sam waving wildly behind him. You can’t help but laugh at their enthusiasm. You always thoroughly enjoyed how much the boys supported each other, finding it impossibly sweet how much they supported each other. You wave back to the boys, sliding into the chair next to Isaac. 

“We got you something.” He says gruffly. 

You blink in surprise and look at Jamie, who shrugs in return. You turn back to Isaac, brows furrowed. “You didn’t -” But you don’t even get to finish your sentence, the burly footballer is thrusting a bag into your hands, and you have no choice but to take it from him. 

You look curiously at the team, who all seem to be staring at you, and rustle through the layers of tissue paper. You pull out a tshirt, Richmond colors and emblazoned with large white letters. You stare at it. 

“You don’t actually have to wear it, “ Sam starts, but you scoff. 

“Are you kidding me? I love it!” You squeal with excitement, getting up and running to the bathroom to put it on. When you return, Jamie bursts into laughter. 

Your new tshirt reads : JAMIE TARTT FANCLUB PRESIDENT. You grin at Jamie, practically skipping over to him to give him a kiss. The team cheers, causing you and Jamie both to blush, but you don’t mind. 

You don’t mind at all.

[slasheru]

Whoaaaa that's right Act 2's Alpha/Early Access has a SEXY OFFICIAL RELEASE DATE! Come on down to bonertown (non-gender-specific) this Feburary 14th for Part 2 of America's Horniest Horror Movie University!

🔪 https://suiteddevil.itch.io/slasher-u-act-2 🔪

WHAT'S NEW IN ACT 2:

Main Quest: Continue solving the main murder mystery!

Dateables Storylines: Tons of reactive choices, scenarios, and quests abound as you continue each dateable's storyline! (Currently Implemented: Tate, Juno, Hex, Laila)

The Passage Of Time: Experience a whole gore-geous Fall world palette (and events!) when Football Season hits during Act 2!

Side Quests AND New Quests: Finally get around to managing and decorating that speakeasy - and more!

Pass Your Midterms with new major-specific questlines and bigger scenarios - like Paisleigh's timed Saw trap (with contextual differences based on who you're dating)!

Brand New Layered Outfit System & Wardrobe UI: Outfits are now layerable with separate parts - design your fit with tops, bottoms, jackets, facewear, and more!

Piercings and Tattoos: Enter the body mods shoppe for realistic piercings (get pierced and swap out jewelry!), or get a tattoo! Story events will trigger characters to possibly get tattoos, as well!

New (Huge) Zones: Explore a world beyond campus, from Juno's hometown of New Ontario, to the bustling cyberpunk town center Slasher U is nestled next to, to the elaborate Final Girl Ball at the mysterious Heatherington Mansion!

New Minigames: Explore the art of slushie-making, fight Mr. McGillicutty to the death, and more!

New Characters: Tons of new folks integrated reactively into the Slasher U campus ecosystem!

New Scenarios: Just like Sawyer's big party and Hex's Rapture blowout, there's tons of new adventures, inset scenarios, and puzzles with brand new mechanics within the world!

ROADMAP: COMING SOON IN THE NEXT FEW MONTHS

Sawyer Main Quest - just like in Act 1, since Sawyer is a later addition, his content's just a little bit behind! Expect the full Sawyer suite to be up in the next few months.

New Repeatable Scene Content: New text messages, hookup scenes, dorm scenes, and more!

More Common Chats: Topics for each dateable to talk about, now that Act 2 is underway!

More Customization: Empty holes in those UI slots in your Wardrobe window are waitin' to be filled!

ROADMAP: COMING IN THE NEAR-ISH FUTURE

Steam Version: Once the game's out of beta and as un-buggy as I'd like it, it's off to Steam!

Headless Horsemike Hookup: You'll notice the START of a Horsemike flirtationship in there already, but the full thing's yet to come! (This was a reach goal from the Crowdfundr!)

This is an ALPHA / EARLY ACCESS game, so there'll be some chunks missing, things will ALWAYS been changing and be added, and bugs will feature aplenty - but as Just One Guy (tm) I could always use your help hunting them down so I can fix 'em! If you were here for Act 1's launch, it'll be almost entirely like that! (Although with more people here. Hi, people!!)

Thank you SO SO SO MUCH for all your support, love, playthroughs, and absolutely unhinged fanart throughout these last two years! May your campus always be horny and your goblet always full (of blood, maybe), Student Disembody!!

xoxoxooxoxoxoox Professor Plutonium

[hanasnx]

uhh if this is open for more scott thirsts..? but you have big nerd like glasses and he’s always calling you four eyes and shit but he eventually gets what he wants and you’re on your knees sucking him off and as much as he wants to cum all down your throat he has a different idea, he pulls out and cums all over your face but mainly your glasses, that shit eating grin as he admires his handiwork..

MINORS DNI 18+

There's something about making fun of a girl with a lot to prove. SCOTT BARRINGER plays the game well. He sees a chick with fat glasses on the bridge of her nose, and a high-and-mighty attitude, and he knows she's due for a chance to show what she's made of. He did it all the time back at home. Nerd girls always put out, always eager when a guy like him shows some interest. It's a formula, make her feel bad about everything that society deems unattractive, and then she'll fall all over herself when he finally admits she isn't all bad.

You would loudly correct him in classes, demonstrate your superiority or ability to follow rules better than him. Hell, you were basically a TA, it was fucking annoying. Acting like being a little teacher's pet was better than sex. It's no big deal, he'll teach you later.

"Four-eyes." he addresses you on the courtyard, and you know who's talking to you. You turn, clutching your books to your chest and adjusting your glasses further up your nose by pinching the corner of them.

"Barringer." you reply curtly. "Are you going to ask me for the notes again? 'Cause you should've been there taking them yourself."

"Ooh," He sucks breath through his teeth with a brief frown. "That stings."

"Sarcasm. How refined." you note as he approaches you, lumbering over to you in all his layers that make his wide shoulders look broader.

"You don't look bad today." he muses, rounding you slowly as he scans your figure. "Almost distracts from that thing on your face." Lazily, he gestures to the glasses.

"Can you be any less original? It helps me see." You try to ignore the burning in your cheeks at being so scrutinized. Sure, you've had conversations with Scott, but he's never paid you even a backhanded compliment before. You don't like how it makes you feel.

"Yeah, well. I'm gonna swing by the janitor's shed later. Maybe you'll surprise me you're not such a prude and be there."

"Oh— oh, fuck—" Broken noises of pleasure utter from his lips in between chewing them with his rows of perfect teeth. You could hate how pretty he is, brows twisted in near anguish over sensitive tissue stimulated by a wet tongue and warm throat. The glasses you wear have slid down to the tip of your nose from the effort of bobbing your head. Frustratingly, Scott Barringer is hung, and your neck cramps from sucking it off. "You really are a freak, Four-eyes." He enunciates the word, and a wicked smile creeps onto his handsome features, watching you take every inch.

You glare up at him, and you retract intent to tell him off for calling you that right now, but his big hands at the back of your neck keep you from escaping, shoving you back down with a wet sputter. "The guys were right." he exhales. "Dorky girls like you are so easy." You brace on his thighs, and you're mad at yourself for being as slick as you are. An ache between your legs you wish the star football player would handle for you. As if you want to please him, make sure he can't forget you, you try harder, swirling your tongue around him. A low groan vibrates from his throat as he tips his head back, lazily bucking his hips into your face. "You want a mouth-full of cum or something?"

You make a noise, and he snickers. He rolls his neck so he can see you again, and a hand cups the underside of your chin, curling his body around you.

"Nah, I know what you want. Fuck, I'm gonna cum." With that, he pulls out, yanking you off so he can grab his base, giving himself a few furious pumps as his dick twitches in his hand. Thick spurts of finish spout from his tip, landing on your unsuspecting face. The panes of your glasses are coated in cum, unable to be seen through, and drops slide down your forehead from his clumsy aim.

You shove at him, which only exacerbates his cruel laughter. "You're such a jerk, Scott!" Your fingers pinch carefully at your glasses to extract them from your face without touching your hair. To inspect them, you turn them towards you, squinting at them as you assess what could safely remove cum from their delicate nooks and screws.

All the comfort you receive in return is, "Oh, c'mon, it's not that bad. Quit bitching." Which earns him a sharp hit on his chest.

[enbysiriusblack]

how marauders would decorate their laptops for uni:

james- a couple stickers of just his football team logo & the star wars logo

sirius- absolutely covered in stickers. however half of them are homemade stickers of his pets & the others a variety of like film refs, band logos, protest stickers

remus- uses a notebook

peter- empty at first until he befriends sirius & james, and then covers it in stickers. they're all marvel & dc stickers & some random ones he just liked the look of

lily- has quite a few, mostly aesthetic ones but also the ring from lord of the rings & science based ones

mary- has a couple she took from lily that she just liked the look of

marlene- layers upon layers of stickers. she'll literally put any on there, she just likes covering her laptop in stickers.

emmeline- no stickers at all

dorcas- just has her football teams logo

[venusbby]

♡ characters/pairings: isagi yoichi x reader

♡ warnings: cursing, teeny tiny bit suggestive (oops)

♡ note: this is short but my brain today was fully occupied by yoichi so here u go also i am so horrid at titles that i almost thought about naming this 'victoria's secret' somebody call me an idiot sandwich right now ok bye somebody help me what do i even call this no title for now ok ok bye

🍁 — your boyfriend has taken the concept of your secret relationship a little too seriously.

"what are you doing? let me in." isagi whispered, eyebrows furrowing underneath his messily kept dark hair. although standing in your apartment's doorway gave him a little relief from the cool waves of your air conditioner, he needed to get in before anybody else saw him— but for some reason, you looked like a deer caught in headlights.

"yoichi?" you stressed on the name hard, your jaw dropping slightly when you were finally able to recognise the deep blue eyes that stared back at you. "you're joking."

"no way, you couldn't recognise me?"

"of course not!" you whisper-yelled, opening the door further to quickly let him inside, eyes drifting from the two doors across the floor to see if anyone of your neighbours was watching. as isagi stepped inside and kicked off his shoes, you watched in astonishment.

"you think i'm going to recognise you when you're dressed like this?" you gestured towards his outfit, from his black face mask to his new shoes. once the door was closed, you couldn't stop yourself from snorting. the more you looked at him, the more recognisable he got— from his eyes to the rings he usually wore.

your boyfriend scoffed, hastily discarding his face mask and throwing it aside, followed by his jacket, then his hoodie, and then— why was he removing his shirt?

"it's so fucking hot," he hissed, running a hand through his hair which was damp at the base with sweat, broad shoulders tensing and relaxing every time he moved to fan himself. "it's so fucking hot but i wore three layers just so i could see you and you're laughing?"

you only stared, not being fast enough to take everything in, how he looked and what he was saying— until he took three quick steps towards you and his hands found their home on either side of your hips, "before you say anything, i'm here because i missed you."

your heart sped up.

only six months into dating the pro footballer isagi yoichi, and he shows up to your apartment in broad daylight dressed in all black hoping to get here without being noticed, just because he missed you.

there was no way he couldn't feel your heart pounding when you chuckled and threw your arms around his neck to bring him into your embrace. your smile was not going to leave anytime soon and by now it was almost normal for your heart to act up when he was around.

since you were just in a tank top and shorts, when you hugged him, you realised he really was suffering in this month's hot weather. there was no way a little sweat was going to stop you from balancing yourself on your toes to push back his hair and plant a kiss on his forehead.

you stared at his flushed face, not bothering to think if it was because of your close proximity or the heat from his clothes. "yoi, you didn't have to do all this. we could've met where we did last time—"

"i'd do anything for you," he cut you off, talking as if he was telling you a fact. his eyes softened, loving and apologizing. "and i hate that you have to drive ten minutes away to meet me all the time."

you rolled your eyes, hands settling on his shoulders now. "ten minutes is nothing."

isagi shrugged at your stubborn response, eyes trailing down to your lips. "im here now, so what's the point of all this? just kiss me."

as expected, your secret lover was quite desperate during the kiss. the last time you met each other was the previous week, after which your schedules struggled to match up and caused you both to pause your meetings for a few days.

the longing behind the way his lips settled against yours almost made your legs give up, and you were thankful for your grip that tightened on his shoulders, which coaxed out a soft hum from isagi.

your first instinct after pulling away was to pinch his cheeks. isagi wasn't in his trance any longer once your fingers poked at his face. "your disguise was kinda shitty, though."

"as if. even you couldn't tell if it was me at first." he retorted, lips still swollen.

"next time you come over, let me help you decide on an outfit that won't make you miserable. 'kay?" you smiled cheekily, thumb hovering over his jaw, and whispered. "and put your shirt back on, please."

"but i'm still feeling hot. don't you like the view anyway?"

you shook your head when you saw his grin, ignoring the last part (which was true). "no worries, i'll turn the AC up for ya."

he gave himself a B for effort, at least.

🍄 — val is tagging... + @hyomagiri (<333)

[traldemic6]

From Jocks to Blocks: The High School Athlete's Surprising Journey to Obesity in College - A Comprehensive Study

Abstract:

The transition from high school to college is a critical period for many young adults, with numerous changes affecting health and behavior. This longitudinal study explores the correlation between obesity and the decline in physical activity among college males who were previously athletic in high school. Interviews with college students are utilized to provide insights into lifestyle changes and decision-making, while multiple weigh-ins track body changes over time.

Introduction:

Remember those athletic high school boys who once dominated the sports field, garnering admiration from their peers and inspiring dreams of athletic glory? It turns out that many of them may be trading their jerseys for XXL sweatpants as they navigate their way through college. While it is not uncommon for college students to experience weight gain during their transition to higher education, this study focuses on the unique phenomenon of formerly athletic high school males falling victim to obesity. The irony of these young men, once admired for their physical prowess, now succumbing to a sedentary lifestyle is examined in detail.

Methods:

A sample of 400 male college students, ages 18-22, were selected based on their athletic involvement in high school. Participants were enrolled in various colleges across the United States, representing diverse backgrounds and areas. Interviews were conducted to gather information on their exercise habits, dietary choices, and lifestyle factors that contributed to their weight gain. Multiple weigh-ins were performed throughout the study to track changes in body weight and composition.

Results:

As college life progressed, many of our once-athletic participants found themselves tipping the scales in a way that would make their high school coaches weep. By their sophomore year, the average weight gain was approximately 25 pounds, with a significant increase in body fat percentage. During interviews, participants cited a variety of factors contributing to their expanding waistlines, including reduced physical activity, increased alcohol consumption, and poor food choices.

To illustrate the physical transformations, let's take a closer look at some of our interviewees and their less-than-brilliant insights:

Participant A: The Former Quarterback

Weighing in at a once-impressive 185 pounds, this football star was the epitome of high school athleticism. However, by sophomore year, he had ballooned to a staggering 245 pounds. While his throwing arm may have remained strong, the added weight made maneuvering around the buffet table his new sport of choice. When asked about his weight gain, he eloquently stated, "I dunno, man. I just, like, eat a lot now, and I don't, like, run or anything anymore. It's college, you know?"

Participant B: The Track Star Turned Couch Potato

This once-speedy sprinter now found himself huffing and puffing just to make it up a flight of stairs. His college experience saw him gain over 30 pounds, with his once-chiseled calves now hidden beneath a layer of fat. Evidently, the only thing he's racing now is the delivery driver to his door. During his interview, he mused, "Yeah, I guess I just like pizza more than running now. Who would've thought, right?"

Participant C: The Wrestler Now Grappling with Obesity

Once a formidable presence on the wrestling mat, this participant's newfound girth rendered him more suited for sumo than high school wrestling. Gaining a whopping 35 pounds during his freshman year, he remarked, "Well, I never really liked vegetables, and now that Mom's not here to make me eat them, I don't have to. Bring on the burgers and fries, am I right?"

Participant D: The Basketball Player Who Now Dribbles Only His Food

The slam dunks and three-pointers of his high school days were a distant memory as this former basketball star navigated through college. With a 40-pound weight gain, his vertical leap was now limited to reaching for the top shelf of the pantry. When asked about his lifestyle changes, he offered this brilliant insight: "I mean, there's just so much good food around, and parties, and stuff. Why waste time playing ball when you can eat and chill, ya know?"

Participant E: The Swimmer Whose Pool Now Holds Only Chips and Dip

Once a lean, mean swimming machine, this participant found that the "freshman 15" was more like the "freshman 45" for him. His once-aerodynamic physique was now more suited for floating than swimming. In an attempt to justify his new lifestyle, he explained, "Dude, I swam, like, all the time in high school. Now, it's just nice to, like, not have to do that anymore, you know?"

Discussion:

The interviews and weigh-ins revealed a clear trend: high school athleticism did not guarantee continued fitness in college. Several factors contributed to the transformation from "jocks" to "blocks," including a lack of structured exercise, increased social commitments, and new dietary habits. However, we must also acknowledge the role of the college environment itself.

Colleges often provide students with numerous options for unhealthy food, and social events can lead to excessive drinking and late-night binge eating. Our former athletes, now unshackled from the rigors of high school sports, found themselves ill-prepared for managing their health in this new environment. It is clear that this issue extends beyond individual choices and requires systemic changes to promote a healthier college experience.

The interviews also revealed a pattern of participants downplaying the significance of their weight gain and the impact on their health. This laissez-faire attitude suggests that education on the importance of maintaining a healthy lifestyle during college is necessary to prevent obesity and its associated health risks.

Conclusion:

The road from high school athletic success to college obesity is paved with good intentions, but often marred by a lack of guidance and support. It is crucial to address the root causes of obesity among college students, especially those who were once models of physical fitness. By providing resources, education, and opportunities for continued physical activity, colleges and universities can help these students maintain their health and well-being, and perhaps even restore their former glory (yeah, right).

The irony of these once-athletic young men now struggling with obesity highlights the need for a comprehensive approach to health and wellness during the college years. It is our hope that this study sheds light on the importance of addressing the unique challenges faced by former high school athletes as they transition to college life. With appropriate interventions and support, perhaps these young men can once again become role models for physical fitness and healthy living. But that doesn't look very likely.

[coycorry]

Me trying to find a SINGLE reason for Norata to be white (unsuccessfully)

hello folks

it’s me your dude corry. I couldn’t justify Norata being white so here I am fixing GF plot for yall again.

Wish they show us a bit more brothers dynamic in the series, yh I understand they wanted to keep it dramatic between Norata and Aarch, but how can I believe that they are real siblings when they don’t act like siblings? (Imma having a brother myself and I swear some of our conversations looks more like a sitcom scene yet more dramatic)

I’d love to see more references/hints to their shared past, just verbal ones like “You maniac acting like this because mom always loved you more” and also in that way I think we could see more layers in their story. For example Norata could’ve mentioned that their parents (Rokkets grandparents) died and Aarch didn’t even appeared to their funeral and Aarch be like “Hey, I sent the money and the flowers” and Norata just cracks at some point and yell at him like “I DIDN’T NEED MONEY OR FLOWERS” which makes their conflict even more spicy. Layers, my fellows, I need more layers…

Have you ever thought that 15 years is actually not that much? I never did when I was a kid, so when I saw older Aarch with fully white hair in my childhood I thought: an yea OK. But now I’m like WAIT WHAT

Let’s do a bit of a math. Aarch, Norata and Artegor were in their 20s before GG (Great Glaciation) and assuming that average age of GF players is very young (cause you get into football in a very young age like snow kids in their 15s which is ridiculous, but somehow in that universe everyone is OK with that, so I presume it’s a common thing). So they all were in their early 20’s during flashbacks… +15 years on the top equals that you WILL NEVER turn fully grey/white, because you will be 40 y.o top. Also we see how Artegor, Addim, Tia’s parents, Maya and lot’s of other people of his age didn’t get a singular grey hair. Smells like a plot hole for me. Or Aarch dyeing his hair, which is more likely. And It’s brings us to the next great layer of character building…

Aarch is one of the most random human in the world of GF, who tries to pretend that he can organize.

And he’s certainly not a wise old man as they were trying to sell it to us. He’s more like Satoru Gojo type of a coach, who is making a whole bunch of a questionable decisions based on his random ideas. Even their major saying with Clamp gives us “with your ideas and my inventions…” I mean c’mon he was literally sleeping while driving the shuttle in the opening scene, so tell me if that’s wise. Then randomly saves M-Ice just because, so he can use him later to get more people for his sick plan. And don’t get me wrong, I mean thats kinda slay action💅✨, intelligence is sexy, but I’d love to see more of that side of him LIKE MAN BE RANDOM AND ENJOY THAT BRO

I could continue this, but I’ll save all my thoughts on that family for later. Now enjoy my sketches (Rokket is a big mood) let me know what if you have any thoughts on that and I’ll speak to you in the next post✨

[amplexadversary]

Vex being able to shoot without penalty from two football fields away XD

Meanwhile her husband needs a whole ass sniper rifle with a scope to beat that. I'm pretty sure based on Fenthras's art that Vex shoots barebow too.

She still carries the Percy Special explosive arrows ^u^

Percy's little murder toy structured as a caricature of one of the people that were on The List god he's so petty I love it.

Man got out of a tragedy and even got to keep his grudge, that's how great his friends and his wife are.

If VM actually pull off the "un-doom a fucker and get one of the party members hitched" move but for Keyleth this time I will fucking cheer.

Also Liam calling Vex "The Rogue" is bittersweet and I love it.

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

Fuck it is delightful seeing someone take out a massive goddamn mini

My group doesn't get that since we play online (cross country TTRPGs)

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

Grog: "If you don't want this, stay inside." to two enemy soldiers cowering in a tent.

Fuck I love Grog. Rage-based superpowers and a love of gore, but he's plenty in control of himself, and he explicitly chooses mercy. He's very much a play-to-type barb but the layers he has make him an exceptional character, that's what I love about him.

The cheerful "Okay!" when the soldiers nod in agreement XD

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

I am loving the bird trivia.

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

The mold he ate this episode was food coloring, but the mold he's drinking isn't. The bottle cap will not protect you, Sam Riegel. The part you put your lips on is still rattling around touching whatever's in there.

If he dies of self-inflicted mold I make no promises to be tasteful in discussing it.

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

Scanlan is probably the funniest member of VM to get his hands on the Beacon.

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Oh shit, Divine Intervention succeeds automatically at lv20.

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

Grog going *you have to let them feel they're [doing good]* about the enemies doing scratch damage to him makes me wonder how much he's done that for the quarter-elves.

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Sam taking back the command that was meant to friendly-fire Trinket because Laura would kill him. Yeah. Yeah I bet he does.

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Liam did not use the entirety of that Mass Heal's HP pool you cannot tell me he's not allowed to just double the number of HP he's pumping into the critically injured party members.

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The corpse sockpuppet XD fuck I love Grog.

And he and Pike cheering when she gets the worm to throw her up and Grog catches her out of the air. They're delightful.

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

KEYLETH GET IN THERE. Go hug him!

... Fuck.