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beabnormal24 · 5 months

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My hand slipped, here's a Gax wip

I couldn't help myself so I posted the wip anyway, enjoyyy

(I don't know when I'll finish this fic, but I'm having a lot of fun writing it):

“Okay, so Max and George against me and Oscar. What do we say?” Lando pops his elbow on the net’s pole, chewing loudly on his gum as he bounces the racket on his knees.

Oscar stands behind him with his arms crossed on his chest, a cap messily pulled over his hair, staring at Lando’s back like a good scholar waiting for instructions.

George shares a quick glance with Max: the only answer he gets being a careless shrug.

“I mean-“ he says, scratching the back of his head. “Wouldn’t it be a bit, I don’t know, unbalanced? No offence to any of you, of course.” He quickly adds, but not quick enough for Max to suppress his snort.

George is not looking at him, but he doesn’t need to turn around to know he’s rolling his eyes.

But maybe he’s smiling with the wrinkles next to them, in the way he does when he’s a bit endeared by him. Maybe, he can’t know.

“Georgie, my dear. Let’s put it like this” Lando says, shaking his head. “Out of all of us, I’m the best.”

Max coughs behind him. “Bullshit.”

George has to press a fist against his mouth to cover his laugh.

“You are all crap. Max and Oscar are real real crap, while you, George, are just slightly crap. Between Max and Oscar, Osc is the crappiest.”

“Hey!” Oscar protests, glaring at the back of Lando’s head as he seems to finally wake up from his open-eyed slumber. There’s a frown between his eyebrows, George knows that he’s more than aware of how bad he is, but the competitive side of him just can’t let Lando expose him so bluntly.

They’ve all been through that.

Lando shushes him with a shake of his hand, blowing a raspberry with his mouth. “So, it’s all a matter of statistics-“

“That’s not what statistics is about, Lando.”

“Which means that it’s me and Osc against you and Max, alright?”

There’s nothing more to say that would change his mind, so George just shares an amused look with Max and wishes that for once his height might be of help.

They lose, terribly, George must admit that his pride is mostly wounded by the fact that Lando actually is the best out of all of them, so much so that Oscar doesn’t even need to raise his racket that many times and still they get horribly plastered to the ground and miss almost every single hit.

Max doesn’t seem as happy about the result either, if the way he’s gasping for air and grabbing at his bent knees is anything to go by. For a professional driver, he’s probably got the worst resistance out of all of then, given how he had already started to pant after half of the first set.

George lets himself stare at his profile for a second, the sweat dripping from his hairline to the tip of his nose, red from exertion, freckles bright under the deep flush, the cap on his head sliding slightly up as he brings a bottle to his lips.

He casts away his eyes just as Max turns around, feeling his own face heat up at the possibility of being caught, busying his own hands with one of the bottles scattered behind the white line.

“Next time.” Max exhales, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A droplet falls on his upper lip, George forces himself to stare at Oscar slumping tiredly against one of the walls of the club. “Next time we’re going to call Fernando and beg him to come back playing with us. He’s a lot more fun than those two idiots, I swear if I hear Lando moan Oscar’s name like a whore one more time-“

George glares at him, hoping with all his might that anyone milling around them is distant enough not to hear him. “Yeah, sure, let’s call Fernando. And how exactly would you do that?”

Max raises an inquisitive eyebrow, mouth twisting in that way he does when he thinks an interviewer is asking the dumbest question ever.

Unfortunately, George has been on the receiving end of it enough times to recognise it immediately.

“You’re still his dearest baby, aren’t you?” Max asks, cheekily winking at him, tipping the neck of his bottle towards him to point at his chest with a finger. “If there’s anyone who can bring that old bastard back, it’s you. And maybe Lance and Carlos, but mostly you.”

“Shut up.” George grumbles, hoping that Lando is not eavesdropping on them, or else he would’ve to deal with all the teasing he had desperately hoped to leave behind once Fernando had finally decided that enough was enough.

One single year of being teammates, one single year of having to deal with Fernando’s complete lack of a filter and notion of personal space, and he’ll have to bear the consequences for the rest of his life.

He does miss the old man, though, but they’ll probably catch up at the New Years’ party and George will have to endure at least a two hour long pleasant monologue about how retired life hurts Fernando to the core.

“Alright lads.” Lando shouts on the other side of the court, stretching his arms above his head just like the showoff that he is. Oscar, at least, has the decency to appear completely unfazed. “It’s dinner time, I choose the place and the pizza is on the losers.”

“Wait a second, we never agreed on that!” Max says frowning.

“Yeah, no, he’s always like this. Just makes things up, it’s his talent.” Oscar deadpans. “But I have to agree with Lando on this one, it’s a good idea.”

“Ah, no I won’t accept this. You don’t count, you didn’t even lose.” Max protests, narrowing his eyes in his direction. Oscar just shrugs innocently.

“See? It’s three against you, Max. Losers pay.” Lando concludes, twisting the damp towel around his neck just to smack it against Oscar’s shoulder.

Oscar smacks his own against his head in return, leading to a quick banter that inevitably brings the eyes of other people at the court towards them, as if being a bunch of drivers in a public space wasn’t already enough.

“But I never agreed to anything.” George mumbles.

“Either way, it’s always your fault, Russell.” Max teases, squeezing his forearm for a second as he shoulders past him.

George swats it away weakly, his skin almost feeling like burning where there’s still the faintest feeling of a pressure. When he looks down at it, he swears he can see something glowing under the fabric of his thermal T-shirt, like a flicker, or even a spark, as if his skin is trying to light up on fire all of a sudden.

“George.” He snaps his head up at the sound of his name, heartbeat growing faster in his chest, pounding, pounding, pounding- “Did you hit your head? Come on let’s go before he gets even more strange ideas.”

George has to admit that Lando knows his stuff when it comes to eating. Perhaps being as picky as he is helps in that matter, but George still appreciates the choice of a small spot, private, a bit more distant from the other tables.

They are not worried about being stopped, anyway, there’s not many tourists wondering about in Monaco when so close to Christmas, and definitely not on a weekday.

Oscar is a pretty good conversationalist, George already knew that, so he spends most of the dinner talking with him about his plans for the Holidays and his sister dealing with her first semester in Chemical Engineering while Lando and Max chat about a game or something Martin’s related, probably.

But the strange feeling on his chest remains constant, like a gentle blow against his skin, right under the sweater he had brought as a change.

From nothing more than a distant sensation, it starts to properly itch halfway through the meal, when Max moves his chair closer to the table and their knees knock against each other, and George almost jumps out of his skin at the sudden touch.

Max looks at him weirdly, his raised eyebrows trying to ask questions that George does not have the answer to, so he just shots him his politest smile and goes back to his glass of water.

Too often than he would like, the itch becomes so unbearable that he has to scratch it, shoving a hand under his sweater and rubbing his fingernails until he’s sure his skin must be all raw and red and pretends like it’s nothing.

Oscar, at least, doesn’t seem to pay it any attention, or if he notices anything weird, he’s kind enough to not point it out.

To avoid talking about racing it’s pretty easy, nobody wants to be reminded of their respective places in the Championship, with Max missing second place to Carlos for a bunch of points, George grazing the top three but not reaching it, and both Lando and Oscar still left behind.

They had all hoped for something better, with all the new regulations, with all the new possibilities. At the very least, they’re all happy for the end to Charles’ long suffering.

George does not pay at all, in the end, because as soon as he makes a gesture of taking his wallet out, Max is rolling his eyes and huffing and shoving his arm behind his back saying something about being the one who earns the most out of the four of them, anyway.

At that point, George’s chest might as well have caught on fire with how much his skin starts to burn.

He’ll blame it on stress, he thinks, because it has been a stressful bunch of months, from first to fourth in a span of a year does something to your head and George hasn’t exactly been in the best position to actually deal with whatever was going on inside of himself without people assuming that he was bending to the challenges of his new teammate.

Lando and Oscar say goodbye with half hugs and promises of catching each other during the rest of the break that George knows are just a polite way of saying that if they happen to be in the same place at the same time, then they should try and meet up.

But it will probably be impossible with Lando flying from one part of the world to another doing things that they are all pretty sure he shouldn’t be allowed to do at all.

They leave together, arguing like kids about some stupid thing with knocking shoulders and twinning heads ducked down, hip to hip, arm to arm, always doing the same thing but not quite, and George has to properly spread a hand over his chest when he’s left alone with Max and his skin starts to feel like thousands of pins prickling at it, sharp and annoying and oh so unbearable.

It’s just stress, it’s alright, he just needs to go back home and run himself a good bath with those salt things that Charles got him for Secret Santa last month, and then, tomorrow, he’ll just have to catch up with Aleix and find the number of his therapist and book an appointment or two. He’ll detox at his parents’ house and then at the New Years’ party and then he’ll be all focused for the next season.

Just like every other time.

“Russell.”

A hand wraps around his bicep, small but strong. It feels heavy on him, perhaps he lost too much weight. His heart thumps uncontrollably against his ribcage, and George knows that if he were to take a look at his chest right now, he would probably catch another spark.

But maybe it’s all in his imagination, he’s just stressed.

Max looks at him from the tip of his big nose, his eyes smiling with the corners of his lips as he pats George’s shoulder, almost affectionately. And it looks good on him, George has just changed his mind, the third place almost makes him seem more human, more reachable, even if George had already reached him last year (but it never felt as right as it does now).

He likes that.

Max squeezes one last time, knocking their arms against each other. It’s not a hug like Lando, but it’s something close to it and it makes George feel acknowledged in that weird kind of way you that only Max’s things make him feel.

“Just don’t be a stranger, yeah?” It doesn’t sound as empty as George would’ve expected.

Max disappears in Monaco’s breeze with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket and his head turned to the side to look at the coast following him, or it’s him who follows the coast. It’s not that simple to guess when George feels the way he does about him.

He stares at the broad expanse of his back until he’s nothing more than a distant figure just like any other person around and he can pretend that he’s no one in the middle of the world.

The blessing of anonymity, he muses, gripping at the hems of his sleeves.

All of a sudden, his chest feels quiet.

#gax #max verstappen/george russell #max verstappen #george russell #lando norris #oscar piastri #ao3 fanfic

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meanscarletdeceiver · 8 months

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Wilbert's Worst

Right, so I really was open to having my mind changed on The Worst One but nobody’s argument has budged me.

I was going to write a complete, balanced essay on The Worst W. Awdry Book, but I’m a) mired in the research phase (hey if anyone knows someone with an encyclopedic knowledge of Tom and Jerry hit me up, for real) and b) right now I wanna talk about the characters and their Beloved Dynamics instead.

So I'm just gonna get this out of the way so I can post the poll and move on to answering fun asks and watching Tom and Jerry in peace. Behold: a salty and unbalanced review.

Wilbert’s biggest failure of a children’s storybook?

Henry the Green Engine

Ohhh… because of the, uh, ra —?

Because of the racism, yes!

Oh. You do know that since 1972 they’ve republished it without the n-slur?

Good for them. Two things:

1. I know it used to be there, I’m never able to read it without knowing it was there in the first edition.

2. I consistently try, when ranking the books, to consider them in the context in which they came out. Because of this, I don’t like using “things that happened later” (like a new character never being properly used again or whatever) against the book. This helps me evaluate the author’s successes and failures against what they were trying to achieve when they wrote it vs what I would most want (blorbo content). It helps me not bring to bear the whole weight of fanon and fandom on a text that should be able to stand or fall on its own. Tl;dr I try to read the books like a guy who picked it up in 1951, or whatever.

And yeah, if I’d bought this when it came out it would have had the slur. I’m going to judge it accordingly.

Look, racism is bad, no argument, but does that mean the book as a whole must be condemned?

Yeah, I think the slur and the “aaaand suddenly, blackface! heeheehee” bullshit fuck over the entire book, game over. Go directly to jail, do not collect $200.

The Railway Series is not a work of high art or deep thorny complex literature. The books are meant for children — small children, at that. Children small enough to get bedtime stories read to them. The main goal of each book (especially this early on — you do have to manage secondary priorities like “pleasing the long-time fanbase” the longer you go, but right now we’re only 6 books into the series) is to create a happy imaginary world to enhance childhoods and family lives… to impart to other parents and kids a similar cosy happiness to that the author and his own kids enjoyed when he was workshopping/drafting the stories for them. When we say “children’s book” we really do mean little’uns — these average 1.25 full-color illustrations per page!

And these books sold in large numbers. This means it’s a certainty that somewhere in 1951 there was a Black family who owned the whole series, who went out to the shops, whose kid was like “ooh! Henry gets a book, neat…,” who like everyone else enjoyed the wild ride of Henry’s inspection and coal and wreck and rebuild… only to get verbally spat on one page from the end.

Real mood-killer there. Epic fail, as the cool kids used to say in my youth.

All right, fine, cool kids never said that. Anyway, statistically speaking there was certainly even more than one family that got that experience. Not to mention the non-Black families who even in 1951 were like “... wtf? i’d smack my kid if they ever said a word like that around me, geez. no.” Just a lot of people who had the light the book was kindling in them snuffed out all at once.

You can actually be totally racist and your book not commit creative suicide on the penultimate page! Awdry flubbed his job of 'bestselling books-for-six-year-olds' here. Creative failure. Unforced error. Automatic zero.

But times were different then, you have to consider it in the context of the time.

1951 U.K. was not the nadir of multiracial equality or Black power, but jfc. I can assure you that over 99% of children’s books published that year in the Anglosphere managed to not use the n-slur.

All right, all right. That was bad. But this feels off-topic. If you had never known about what used to be “Henry’s Sneeze,” would you still rank the entire book as dead last in the Wilbert Awdry corpus?

Not dead last, but it is not a strong book. “Coal” and “The Flying Kipper” are super-interesting as material for Henry, but after that the book kind of falls off a cliff; the intrigue drops dramatically. The railway incidents chosen to make stories of are all solid choices, but it was not only “Sneeze” where Awdry’s handling of the material feels clumsy and weird. (And I’m not even talking here of the “heehee blackface — ain’t i a stinker?” gag in “Sneeze.”)

But… “The Flying Kipper”? C’mon. It’s a superb story and no book that contains it can be the absolute worst in the series.

“TFK” remains easily the best single TVS episode ever – but a lot of that is down to Britt and David’s artistry and judgment.

Don’t get me wrong, a full-on railway wreck makes interesting material. But I don’t think the book does nearly as much with it as it could (and I’m trying sooooo hard here to forget about the amazing TVS adaptation, as I think it REALLY shows Awdry up. Even so, the storytelling here is surprisingly tepid and low-stakes). I get that Awdry probably wanted to lean into the comic angle and not make Henry’s condition afterwards seem too grave, in order to ensure the material wasn’t too dark for his young audience? (*mutters* again, a level of tender consideration for his readers’ youth that went right out the window when it came to small Black kids, evidently coz he couldn’t imagine that they read) Understandable, laudable — but if he outright refuses* to make the wreck too dramatic or scary then, well, then the wreck isn’t real scary or dramatic. And it can’t save the rest of the book from its flaws.

*For all I know it could have been the publishers who insisted that the wreck be made preschooler-safe, that’s possible (although it’s also consistent with Awdry’s brand of humor and his overall low degree of emotionalism in his writing). Either way, though, the end result book is what it is and it will be judged accordingly.

In addition to not being as exciting as many remember... @trainsupessandhuntresses asked me once if I thought some of Awdry's stories were "mean-spirited." I had to assent vigorously. And a surprisingly high proportion of those "mean" moments are in Henry the Green Engine? For some reason? It’s not just the racism. Awdry was not in the game to give Henry a deserved happy ending, he’d wanted to kill him off (the fuck?) and when his publishers prevented him (I don’t say this often, especially since I love how salty the Awdrys get about their publishers, but this in case good job, publishers!!) he wrote “TFK” with the primary motivation of giving Henry a new engine basis. Any soft or hearty emotions we get out of the deal are a side-effect — the only emotion that was fueling Awdry as he wrote this was spite, spite and a weird resentment towards his poor, long-suffering, invaluable illustrator. (I don’t blame Awdry for being frustrated that the engine illustrations were continually inaccurate or confusing, but I do think it’s weird to read all this great Henry material knowing that it was written with such poor grace.)

So his ‘happy Henry’ stuff feels perfunctory; his Percy interlude is just brutal (why did you have to drag Percy into Henry’s book purely to give him a fuck-up, a scolding, and a messy dunce cap?); Gordon’s savaging of Henry for being too happy after recovering from a near-death experience is such an incredibly low point for Gordon that it’s hard for me to accept it as canon (there’s being proud, boastful, and self-absorbed, and then there’s being the straight-up raccoon dumpster fire Gordon is in that scene). Oh, and I think “call the police [local constabulary, doesn’t bear firearms]” woulda probably a less reckless way of dealing with the rock-throwing youths than the sneeze of hot locomotive ashes, which of course the Fat Controller doesn’t like, that shit coulda been real dangerous! Mind, there are small rays of kindness throughout that do get me (the interactions between Henry and his crew feeling to me the least perfunctory and most heartfelt), but this is overall such a mean-spirited book. God. It starts off with such a gentle story (almost a non-story, if you’re in it purely for the “railway incidents” game and not character drama), but in short order the vibes just sorta suck. At least in other RWS books, when the vibes are off, they’re usually off near the beginning and then improve by the end. This one gets worse as it goes on. Oof. Don’t like that.

Also, the last page is sooooo lame. I suspect the publisher strong-armed Awdry into writing most of it so that at least the slur wasn’t on the last page of the book... and if Awdry had any idea of how much he’d just empowered Henry and all his fans in this book he shouldn’t have found it hard to find 50 extra words to sum things up. As it was, he’s just filling space and running out the clock, lol. Lame wrap-up. Boring. As usual when it comes to every little thing about this book, Britt and David closed this up better (mind, their closer – “He had taught Gordon and silly boys a lesson, with a whistle and a sneeze” – also sucked. But at least it was blessedly short.)

Didn’t you once list HtGE on a list of your favorite Wilbert Awdry books?

I did list it as one of the books that “at one time or another” have been my favorite in the series. Unfortunately in the case of HtGE, that was back when I really couldn’t read a story that I knew from the TVS without mentally substituting the adaptation into my brain as I read… largely overriding the actual text. Plus, everything I knew from TVS as a kid kind of automatically got a halo effect. Plus, I was super into Henry’s arc.

The first time I read HtGE after calming down and actually reading all the books as books... massive disappointment. There is such a gap there between what I'd thought the book said (all our incredible fanon work overanalyzing and headcanoning Henry and building this beautiful fantasy arc about disability!) vs. what it actually said (limp and careless writing, mean vibes, airbrushed n-slur, bad aftertaste).

I do think there is some stuff about the development of Awdry’s storytelling technique here that is interesting (again, Tom and Jerry superfans reading this, please shoot me a message!) but it doesn’t counteract everything else.

At least we’re over the racism stuff?

Nah, I’m not over it, actually.

#showed his whole ass #an rws book shouldn’t leave a nasty taste in your mouth #but! here we are #okay this rant was not as short as i thought it'd be #but again. there will be a proper analysis in the fullness of time.#henry the green engine (rws)#rws discussion #racism tw #slur mention tw

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flamemons · 2 years

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How do you think Digimon Frontier might have gone if the Spirits of Steel, Wood, and Earth had been bequeathed to Ophanimon, the Spirits of Darkness and Water had been bequeathed to Seraphimon, the Spirits of Flame, Light, Ice, Wind, and Thunder had been bequeathed to Cherubimon, and the protagonists had been Katsuharu, Teppei, Chiaki, Teruo, and Koichi (with Kouji joining later)?

im just gonna ramble whatever comes to mind lmao. i drew some stuff too!

uuh while i find it hard to care too much about those other kids because well, I don't know much about them, it is really fun thinking about how kouichi would act if he was there from the start. I think he'd be serious, in a similar way to Kouji, bc he's there on a mission, y'know! All he remembers is following his brother around until Kouji gets some weird text message (wait,,, does kouichi have a phone? probably not, huh. poor people gang ftw...) and now hes in this fuckin place! (hes a dead soul in this au too.) I'd imagine he'd be just as driven as Kouji was, if not more so, bc he KNOWS koujis gotta be here somewhere....but instead of initially trying to avoid the other kids (koujis strategy), he'd probably stick around as soon as he realizes that theyre gonna get themselves killed if they keep acting stupid. So, instead of trying to ditch the kids or act distant, he'd nag them and rush them to stay on track, and come off as kind of a bossy stick-in-the-mud at first

Side note, its easy to think of kouji as being a lot more serious and mature compared to the rest of the frontier kids, but honestly, I have to wonder if he wouldve acted differently if ophanimon wasnt calling him all the damn time telling him that he has to find answers! hes gotta get stronger! theres something he Has To Know!!! like damn if ophanimon was that specific with the other kids they'd also probably be just as sullen. anyway, kouichi would be feeling the same kind of pressure.

in an attempt to make it more interesting for me, chiaki and teruo are now siblings. or close cousins. or something. (what if they were fraternal twins?? that would be so funny actually. there is a statistically improbable amount of twins here!) AND bc i like chiaki the most i think she'd make a cool leader of sorts! like, the lancer to kouichi. kouichi ends up accidentally being the leader bc hes so driven, and chiakis like, a genuinely nice person who really wants to help the digital world as soon as she steps off the first trailmon onto the flame terminal. she also doesnt take shit from anyone. maybe she was a quiet wallflower-type kid at school, but, if its for another's sake, then she'll always speak up! so now, in the digital world, she cant stay quiet!

ah i love just making shit up. this is fun

so together, they make the most chillest leader/lancer duo ever. (hey, if they WERE to be the two Main Ones, wouldnt it be cool if their Susanoomon-type evolution was deep-sea themed? mix darkness and water together, and you get The Fucking Abyss. it could be bioluminescent! a cool way to turn "light into darkness!")

btw, im not drawing any spirit forms here bc I think these kids would have alternative spirit forms as opposed to the evil ones in the show. like, heroic looking ones (basically, no child deserves to have to spirit evolve into grottomon) BUT im no good at character design and that sounds like a lotta work. also, the other spirits (fairymon, chakkmon, agnimon, etc,) would need evil forms too then, right?? that sounds like a REALLY hard thing to try drawing, so nah. just imagine these kids spirit evolving and fighting offscreen. speaking of the other spirits though,

i want chakkmon/tomoki to try pummeling the shit out of katsuharu and teppei!! karmas a bitch!! tomoki didnt get to have his character development in this AU, bc he (probably) fell off the trailmon train tracks and got Got by cherubimon!

i like the main frontier kids too much to not include them in everything i draw Ever, so imagine that maybe they all came to the digital world alone, and wandered around until they found their respective spirits (in similar circumstances to the show) but since those spirits belongto cherubimon, theyre possessed/convinced to fight on cherubimons side!! like "oh shit i have no friends and i hate my life, yea this big evil bunny has a point lets go fuck shit up". maybe some of them are fully in control of their actions, maybe some arent. maybe some of them remember that theyre human, but maybe some of them dont....?

lastly, i have to apologize bc i got completely sidetracked bc i thought "oh takuya and kouji would be very funny as team rocket-esque villains" so heres flamon and strabimon but Evil™

i like to imagine that theyre the Most Incompetent of cherubimons Evil Guys but theyre the only two (that cherubimon knows of) that can form susanoomon so THATS why hes trying to collect all the spirits. bc of that, they DEFINITELY dont remember that theyre human. (bc of that, they also kind of dont have anything to care about, so theyre just trying to have fun)

it would be fun if they were initially kind of lame but although they may be idiots, theyre not Dumb, so they slowly become competent at the same rate as the Heroes do, and instead of a sephirothmon arc theres like.......a beowolfmon and aldamon arc??? im not a writer i dont know. watch these five kids (and counting!) get slowly hunted by two fucking Beasts in the darkest forest ever.

or maybe they do Actually manage to collect all the spirits but it goes so horribly wrong and now theres like ten goddamn kids and ten spirits mashed up in the psyche of a very unstable susanoomon and its just some fucked up Twisted psychological nightmare. digimon evangelion.

basically in this AU, there is even MORE wild tone shifts and the plot goes Absolutely Fucking Bonkers. and takuya's cosplaying Jotaro Kujo for some fucking unknown reason.

thank you for asking! this was....probably not what you were going for, but c'est la vie

#answers #digimon frontier #abril can draw sometimes #digimon #shitpost #i know takuya looks very small but hes the same height as he is as a person its just that strabimon is a very tall guy #he just looks weird when i tried drawing him shorter that boy needs his long legs and weirdly long torso #its also just funny imagining kouichi getting whiplash bc strabimons so tall but kouji is.......exactly his height #takuya and kouji fight over who gets to take the fractal code this time and they accidentally restore a whole city #and cherubimon has to sit down and take deep breaths bc he cant kill these kids #bc these are the ONLY TWO the spirits of fire and light will accept #the spirits quietly rebel against cherubimons evil by only choosing kids that are Really Bad at being Mean #gun to my head i Cannot talk about digimon without somehow memtioning takuya #its my curse

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majoringinsarcasm · 2 months

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Trans infighting is wild. I’ve thought this before but I am very glad that I am Black because I cannot imagine seeing the world as One Way and then getting angry when other people are like “hey we get hurt to”. Like.

Do not play the “intersectionality” game about Who Gets Hurt Worse. It’s not helpful. It doesn’t GIVE ANYONE more community or social support. Telling another person to shut up about their issues and only listen to one group is just. Hurtful. “We matter more than you so support us but never talk about your issues because they are lesser”

Not kind. Solved no problems. You are angry at a person saying they’ve been hurt because why? You are demanding they listen to you but they aren’t allowed to talk about their own experiences. We can give each other support. We can take care of each other. I feel like people forget that outside of these blogs or accounts we each live individual lives that might not match a statistic or “social norm” or anything. And it’s upsetting to see the same patterns that I did as a newly queer teenager still prevalent and now worse today.

Someone talking about their own issues or pain is not Ignoring Someone Else. If I said I broke my leg today that doesn’t mean I’m ignoring the other blogger who had a spinal injury. One does not cancel out the other. They exist at the same time.

And yes it IS infighting because you’re fighting other queer people about topics they cannot change socially. They are not the source of the Social and Government harassment or violence. Their existence does not make yours worse just because they are alive. And your pain does not mean this stranger is having a super fun and happy life.

Telling someone to help you and support you and stand up for you but not even being willing to let them Talk about their own experiences sucks fucking ass and I will never not believe that.

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stainedglassthreads · 1 year

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Terfs, Puritan-types and aphobes types always chant 'ooooh, you wanna be oppressed so bad, you wanna be oppressed so bad' whenever they encounter asexuals or aromantics but...I feel like they're kind of projecting. Like the times I end up seeing them, it feels like that post where they just...make up a guy and then get mad, often using statistic that are either grossly over-exaggerated or just made up.

They build up a worldview in their minds where the people with power and privilege are always oppressors, and oppressors are always evil, and where people lacking power and privilege are always oppressed victims, and victims are always good. And they're so certain that they're good people, so they must be the victims. Never mind if they're white or able-bodied and those are forms of privilege, and that women of color or disabled women tend to be the ones hurt most by cruel systems, the only things that mattered are that they're women so they're victims and thus good. But it can't just be that the system hurts them, everyone who isn't a woman, or isn't a woman in the right way, must be benefiting from the system in some way, must be AWARE that they benefit, and must be working to keep the system working.

So whoever they think is out to get them must exist and must be out to get them, or else their whole worldview comes apart. So anyone who challenges those incredibly strict worldviews (trans people, bisexuals, gender-nonconforming individuals) endangers that worldview and must just be The Enemy trying to trick them, and anyone who seems like they're making fun of them (asexual and aromantics who ask why systems like amatonormativity have to exist at all) seem like they're mocking them, or making fun of the 'very real' problems, so they're just 'making up reasons to be oppressed' and 'stealing resources'.

The sad thing is. They should be on our side. They should be on the same side as aspecs. When they go 'ooooh, you say this like any allo would be glad to end up in this situation' or 'ooooh, you say this like bad marriages don't exist', we're not actually! We're not saying this is somehow uniquely horrifying to aromantics and everyone else would be delighted. We're pointing out the fucked up aspects of amatonormativity and how romance is perceived and treated, and exaggerating it. Which is what horror as a genre does. The movie Nope is not saying that aliens are here and going to eat us all, it's making a statement about the dangerous ways people treat wild animals, especially in the entertainment industry.

When we say that 'this situation is fucked up', we say it's fucked up that divorce is scandalized and someone is always assumed to be the 'bad guy' in a failed relationship. (Yes there are toxic and abusive relationships but sometimes you just fall out of love, or find more important things than romance, or you were young and impulsive.) That your spouse is expected to be the single most important person in your life. That your friends and family are expected to focus on THEIR spouses and leave friendships to fester, or at least be less important. That in nearly every story, a happy ending is almost synonymous with a marriage. That dying alone is shameful and depressing and undesirable. That the only reason you could possibly reject a potential romantic partner is that there's something wrong with them, or that you like a different gender(liking no gender, or just not being in a good place, isn't an option.) That every time in a movie or a story a woman is introduced as career-driven and independent and happy, she's not actually happy because she needs a relationship to be happy. That so many romcoms play a situation that people would find horrifying completely, 100% straight and treat it as cute and funny and a happy ending.

We were never saying that this situation would be uniquely horrifying for JUST aromantic people. But as aros, we tend to be the first and loudest when saying 'hey this is horror actually'. You should be agreeing with us that a romance-obsessed society is horrifying, not saying we need to 'touch grass'. You ARE agreeing with us, but they're so fixated on being The Victim and The Good Ones, that they can't accept we should be on the same side without letting go of the security blanket that is their worldview. And that's pretty sad.

#salt #amatonormativity #might delete later

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threebooksoneplot · 1 year

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Three Books One Plot and ✨You✨

Now that our first season has drawn to a close we wanted to share some fun stats with you guys! This is information that was actually cut from our finale for time but, since we're so excited about it, we still wanted to share it with you all. It's been a hell of a year and, like we mentioned in our finale, we never expected for anyone besides us and a small group of friends/acquaintances to care so much about this silly project. But a lot of you cared. More than we thought would.

In fact, we had listeners from 50 countries over the course of the past year. This is what our top ten looks like, at a glance:

Shout out to anyone listening from any of these countries, and extra shout out to anyone listening from any other place in the world, too. (All 40 other countries.) As far as the US goes we weren't too shocked by our top five (California, New York, Pennsylvania, Florida, and Texas are also the top five most populated states) but we were excited to see listeners in forty-five states plus DC. So, to our friends in Alabama, Alaska, North Dakota, Vermont, and Wyoming... we'll get you guys next season. 😉

(more information and fun statistics under the cut!)

What was doubly shocking to us was the idea that not only would we have such a broad reach but that we would chart anywhere. Over the last year we have charted on the book charts of eleven different countries, including the United States. Which is fucking bonkers.

Beyond that, we had some more funky statistics we wanted to share! We truly did give you non-Spotify listeners the short end of the stick sometimes but hey, don't blame us. Blame the apps you listen to and like, maybe bully them on Twitter into providing polls and questions like Spotify does. If that doesn't work, you can always join in on our polls here on Tumblr during the interim between episodes. Next season we'll also be encouraging you guys to answer our episode questions in our ask box here, too. Anything to get more hilarious gems from you since you guys are like, really fucking funny.

But as far as platforms go, here's our breakdown:

If you listen on a different app like Pocket Casts or any other podcast platform, please let us know! We'd love to know how you guys are tuning in.

Not to direct our full attention back toward Spotify for a moment (like we love to do) but here were some fun Spotify-centric stats that are worth mentioning. Mainly because the age statistics make us laugh.

Shoutout to any young-young Gen X-ers that listen and aren't in the 45-59 age range. You guys are the true champions and we adore the fact that your peers just do not fuck with us. Also, in the unlikely chance that any of the less than one percent of Boomers (affectionate) that listen to us also happen to follow us on here, please message us so we can give you the key to a city or something. Because we love you. Sorry that supercentenarian Edward kept being weird and rude about your generation. He sucks for that.

To conclude this fun and informative little wrap-up post I wanted to give the biggest, loudest, and most inappropriate shout out to all our sexy listeners who gave Three Books One Plot a rating or a review!

On Apple Podcasts, we received 8 reviews and 17 ratings, giving us an average of 4.6 stars!

On Spotify, we received 63 ratings, giving us a 4.9 star average!

This fall will bring a new season with a new book, new characters, and new guests. But don't worry, there'll be just as many jokes, bits, ill-advised drinking game rules, and sex tape titles that make G rejoice and Shannon sigh in half-reluctant compliance as before.

We wanted to give a super-special thanks to all of you who have tuned in, and we're so excited to see you guys again for Season Two in September!

#s1 finale #episode 25

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tobiasdrake · 6 months

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Ahh, salvation in the shape of an anime I want to watch voluntarily. Episode 16: Endless Eight, Part 5. We are halfway through this arc.

I know I said Yuki's throwing the cicada hunt on purpose because Haruhi having fun is more important than winning at competition. And I stand by that. But I also think she's making her own fun each loop via a self-imposed challenge to find the rarest insect she can possibly locate every time the cicada hunt comes around.

Anyone who's played the same game 15,000 times would inevitably start looking for ways to spice it up.

Hey. Uh. Yuki? Here's another statistic for you to check. How many loops feature Kyon being kicked in the butt by a random passing child?

Hey. Hey, Yuki.

I know I've been asking how many loops there have been in which Mikuru discovers the missing future. But I also want to know: How many loops have there been in which Mikuru discovers the missing future but Kyon refuses to answer a dead-of-night call and just lets it ring until she goes away?

How many loops in which Mikuru and Itsuki find out but Kyon does not?

Who are these random boys chatting up Mikuru and Yuki? What the hell kind of conversation could they possibly be having? Mikuru is bawling her eyes out because the future was deleted while Yuki is Yuki-ing nearby, and these guys are... here. Chatting with them. And then they just leave. Like. Oh yeah, cool, have a good night, ladies.

I am way more interested in seeing whatever the hell just happened over there than in a fourth round of the expositional infodump.

7 more offscreen loops since last episodes.

This. This is the statistic I am monitoring most closely. I keep waiting with dread to see if it's going to go up.

Because. No. How dare. How dare we take a trip to the Bon Festival and not go goldfish scooping. I will murder everyone here. Except Mikuru, of course.

I sure hope the unfinished business that leaves Haruhi so dissatisfied isn't that she never got to spot a Martian because if it is, we are fuuuuuuuuuuucked.

It still kills me how aggressively disinterested Kyon is in Haruhi. Like. He is clearly the designated Shallow Love Interest for the show; The world-cramping event laid that out in no uncertain terms. But even 2/3 of the way through it, he just. Does. Not. Want.

Itsuki tries to bait Kyon into a jealous outburst. He's like, "Oh nooooo, what if I tried to seduce Haruhi instead, hmmm~?"

And then the moment just. Hangs there. Kyon legitimately does not give a shit. Itsuki has to backpedal himself because Kyon doesn't care.

It's such a wild contrast to how a lot of other animes will handle their central Fiery Tsundere/Boring MC romances. Like, it's super common for the designated romance partners to be like "Fuck you I don't want to be here" but then they're secretly harboring all these feelings and get violently protective of each other and shit.

And that's exactly what Itsuki thinks he can provoke here.

But. No. Kyon really, truly does not want to be here. He has absolutely no qualms with the idea that someone else might sweep Haruhi off her feet and then she'll leave him the fuck alone forever.

#the melancholy of haruhi suzumiya #drake watches haruhi suzumiya #yuki nagato #haruhi suzumiya #kyon

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ltleflrt · 1 year

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✨ let's play 10 Qs for GK! 🎆

1- fave character besides harvey/twoface? 2- fave harvey/twoface scene? 3- fave dynamic between 2 characters? 4- best character development? 5- most memorable line? 6- fave plot twist? 7- what did you think of twoface? 8- something you loved about the creation/design? 9- anything you would change about the season 1 plot or characters? 10- what did you think of the season 2 setup?

💌 thanks for sharing the love! #GothamKnights 🦇💋

oooh this looks fun, thanks for asking!

1- fave character besides harvey/twoface? - Stephanie. She's so sweet, so cute, so competent. She appears to have her shit together, and she kinda does, but she's dealing with so much at home. I love her interactions with every other character. Heck, I ship her with all the other batkids, because she has such great chemistry with everyone.

2- fave harvey/twoface scene? Definitely when Harvey checks the camcorder and Fugue!Harvey says hello to him. I squealed! Such a fun scene!

3- fave dynamic between 2 characters? Stephanie with ANYONE. But Harvey and Duela in the finale really attacked my daddy issues, and I was INTO IT. Both versions of Harvey. I wish we could have seen more of them together.

4- best character development? I'm torn between Duela and Brody. I mean, Duela goes from fuck everyone as long as I got mine to I'M GOING TO SAVE MY FRIENDS. What? Gurl. And Brody was such a rich jerk stereotype that I actually suspected he was probably a minor villain. The fact that his parents were both villains, and he said nah thanks I'm hanging with the heroes just made me want to hug him and squish his cheeks.

5- most memorable line? Well my favorite is when Harvey's responding to the Mayor about statistics, and he asks Harvey what the most important number is and Harvey responds "34, your approval rating?" SIR. Your sass!

6- fave plot twist? Rebecca. I did NOT see that coming. I was too focused on her husband lol

7- what did you think of twoface? MY BELOVED. Tho I think over time I'd be bugged by how well he pronounces Bs and Ms with his lips separated by the scarring…he was definitely dubbed, and I could tell lol

8- something you loved about the creation/design? The atmosphere was totally Gotham, even during the day. But the Belfry was probably my favorite set.

9- anything you would change about the season 1 plot or characters? I would have liked to see just one stray adult in the precinct being like "hey shouldn't these kids have lawyers?" Even if the cop in charge is like "no, we wanna get what we can out of them first."

10- what did you think of the season 2 setup? I was yelling about it, AH MAN THEY'RE GONNA THINK HE'S DEAD AND THAT'S ALL WE'RE GETTING??? It was actually really well done, although having less than a minute left to get out of the building made me hardcore roll my eyes. Fictional countdowns are never realistic lol

#ltleramblings #reply #anonymous #gotham knights #gk spoilers

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siennaspeaks · 1 year

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Ending up?

What is “ending up with someone”?

Here’s a question I hadn’t asked myself before replying to and asking many questions that included the term.

I will end up with a nice guy

I want to end up with a nice guy

I want to end up with this guy

I no longer want to end up with this guy

Will I ever end up with a nice guy?

Maybe I want to end up with this girl

Maybe I want to end up with this woman

I want to end up with this woman

Will I ever end up with this woman?

I want to end up with someone

I will never end up with someone

I want to end up with someone who loves me

Will I ever end up with someone who loves me?

I want to end up with someone who respects and loves me

And someone who understands me

Will I ever end up with such a person?

Does such a person exist?

I don’t even want to think about ending up with someone, I just wanna have fun.

This man wants to end up with me

I want to end up with this man

We will end up together

I never want to end up with him

It was way too fast to talk, to even think about ending up with him.

I don’t even want to think about ending up with someone, I just wanna have respectful fun.

6.2

One day, I might end up with someone special.

Will she and I end up together one day?

Maybe, some day.

Right now it doesn’t matter.

5.2

I don’t even want to think about ending up with someone, I just wanna have fun.

Statistically, I’ll come across someone of the sort anyways

And I’ll know when I do, because it will be special

Because I know when it’s special

I want to end up with someone special.

I definitely don’t want to end up with this person, and neither do they with me.

This person is special, although we don’t want to end up together.

I’m glad I had respectful fun with this person, and learned that it can lead to friendship

Hey, friendship and respectful fun go together well

And I’m sure I’ll never end up with them

Wait I think I fell in love

Wait, I think we fell in love

Wait, I’m enjoying this!?!

Oh, and maybe someday we might even end up together

But it’s too early anyway

I really am enjoying this!

Wait, I don’t enjoy most things now

Wait, what’s going on?

Wait, I feel like I’m about to do wrong things

Let’s talk, talking should help.

Can talking make things worse?

Oops, now everyone thinks I’ve gone coocoo

Have I gone coocoo?

I think I might have gone a little more coocoo than usual

Aand now we’re broken up.

I feel like I don’t want to end up with anyone

I feel like I feel that way because we broke up

But wait.

What even is ending up?

#ending #new beginnings #my writing #my experiences #my art #enjoy the ride #spotfiy #dear fellow human #contemplating life #romance #queer artist #Spotify

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wahbegan · 2 years

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Idk i feel like there’s this image a lot of liberal feminists have of free-spirited sexually uninhibited women who just like to fuck that much being paid to have normal sex with lonely, terrified dudes who can’t get it anywhere else when the reality is y’know it’s mostly women in poverty hooking to keep a roof over their head and score a fix and they hate their job and their clients are dudes who can fuck any time they want, but they know hey...i can do ANYTHING to a hooker.

You get it? These aren’t 30-year-old respectful virgins stuttering the whole time who are afraid of being seen naked, disabled men who are considered unfuckable, that kind of shit. These are like gangbangers who want to rough up a woman and married men who want to pretend they’re fucking their daughters. And the ones who are lonely and can’t get laid with anyone else? It doesn’t make them nervous little lambs, it makes them angry and neurotic. And the girl has to take it, cause she’s got mouths to feed and she’s gonna start getting the shakes if she doesn’t cook up soon. That’s the face of prostitution

And pimps and traffickers-who wouldn’t exist, by the way, if this was a fun job that women liked to do-LOVE it when you push this happy hooker narrative. It makes their lives so easy. So yes, please, by all means, fight for legalization. We can already see in countries where it is legal, it won’t change anything. It won’t help poor and sick women. It won’t stop men from hurting them. It statistically does not reduce trafficking. But hey, if it helps you sleep at night

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p0rkyy · 4 months

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hey Tumblr does anyone know if there's a statistic out there on how much prescription bottles contribute to plastic waste. Istg in all my time living that has been my biggest personal waste source. giving me a good 30 pills in these massive gargantuan hulking plastic bottles and then i get it AGAIN in 30 days, for three different medications??? And three medications ISN'T EVEN THAT MUCH compared to people i know. so i just gotta know. and if any of you creative sillies out there have fun cute pill bottle diy, please share, cause I've got an entire medicine cabinet full of empty bottles from the past four years.

#mental illness #mental health #pill bottles #idk what to tag this as #Tumblr #actually mentally ill #mentally ill question?#question for mentally ill people??#at some point i may do a poll of “how many pills bottles people make in a month #0-10 would probably be good? does anyone out there make MORE than ten pill bottles a month in waste???#send help #help me

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persnickety-peahen · 2 years

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i saw a post talking about how wild the human brain is, and in the comments, someone mentioned aphantasia, which made me feel things and i just have to talk about it so here ya go all seven of my followers and people interested in whatever tags i end up using:

if you don't know what aphantasia is, no shame at all. although it's becoming more widely known and researched, it's still a fairly obscure neurological condition. heck, i only know about it because i read an article on it once about six years ago and realized, hey, i have that!

essentially, aphantasia is the lack of a mind's eye, an inability to voluntarily produce mental images. sometimes it's acquired after a brain injury, but it's predominantly just something folks are born with. estimates about the number of people it affects vary pretty significantly—i've seen everything from 1% or less to as much as 5% of the global population! that's wild! statistically, that means you might probably know someone with aphantasia . . . or maybe you have it yourself but, like me, didn't even know it was a thing until someone told you it was and now you've got a little mini existential crisis on your hands where you realize that the brains of at least 95% of the people you know work in a fundamentally different way from your brain and you're missing out on an experience they all have in common and aaaaah

i don't know anyone else irl who has aphantasia, so when i find someone online who does it's like that moment when a dog sees another dog and recognizes that they're a dog and just goes absolutely crazy. i am consumed by the desire to overshare infodump about all the ways aphantasia has affected my life and then compare notes like, do you also have such a bad autobiographical memory that more than half of your childhood memories are actually reconstructions based on stories other people have told you about your own life? do you also sometimes get unreasonably anxious about being a victim of a crime someday and getting a good look at the perpetrator but not being able to describe them to police later because you can't picture what they look like and even a sketch artist wouldn't help and would probably only make things worse as whatever they draw would slowly replace what little memory you do have? are you one of those aphantasiacs who never got into reading because you couldn't picture things? or are you like me and loved reading anyway, but a) got really bored and pulled out of it when authors spent time describing what something or someone looked like because it didn't do anything for you and b) got really confused when your friends would talk about how they didn't like the movie adaptation of something because it "wasn't how they pictured it when reading" and you didn't know what the hell they meant by that? and then you went on to become a creative writer obsessively concerned with imagery and if you have enough of it to satisfy those people who actually like when things are visually described? do you want to get into drawing but give up in frustration every time you try because of the lack of direction you experience from not having an image in your mind's eye to that you're trying to draw in the first place? do you need visual aids to really understand certain scientific and mathematical concepts? were you frustratingly bad at making and interpreting graphs for school projects and presentations? and now you hope you picked a career path where you won't ever have to do that ever again?

are you also terrible at estimating distance and length and height because words like "foot" or "meter" mean nothing to you, much less bigger measurements like miles and kilometers? do you also need google maps to get anywhere despite living in the same city your whole life because lacking a mind's eye also means you lack the ability to make mental maps? were your inability to navigate and difficulty with measurements something people made fun of you for the same way they made fun of me for it? and now that you know you have aphantasia you can snap back at them and be all, actually the reason i can't navigate or understand measurements is because of a neurological condition so you're basically making fun of me for being disabled, how about that? do you also sometimes get sad and think about how you don't really remember anymore what your loved ones who've passed away look like? or even what your loved ones who aren't currently in the same room as you look like? how you rarely notice if someone got a haircut or new piercing or tattoo or otherwise changed their appearance because you can't visually compare it to how they looked the last time you saw them?

when you try to picture a loved one's face, what happens? me, i run through a list of traits in my head, oftentimes more focused on personal attributes than physical ones because that's what i'm actually capable of remembering consistently. i don't just know what someone's hair or eye color is—i have to memorize it, like a fact for school. mom and dad have blue eyes. my husband has hazel-ish green eyes. my best friend is blonde, but her hair is darker now than it was when we were kids, and she got glasses while we were going to college in different cities, i should know that by now and stop being surprised when i see her wearing glasses. her mom, my second mother, has straight brown hair and a long face, but i can't remember what color her eyes are even though i've known her for twenty years. i think they're blue, but i can't picture it. i don't know for sure, and if i think about it too long it kills me. when i have kids, will i remember their eye colors? or will i have to ask my husband if he knows?

i take a lot of pictures. all the time, of everything—of people, of scenery, of my food, or myself, of pets and cools animals i see strolling around the city. boomers criticize me for not living in the moment, and it makes me feel awful, like i have to choose between experiencing something and remembering it. cause yeah, without the pictures, i would forget. i keep movie stubs and playbills and fair tickets and museum handouts and even fucking hospital bracelets, and i cherish them the same way other people cherish religious items.

it's lonely sometimes, having aphantasia.

the people close to me know about it, so they know how to accommodate me in relation to it, and they're supportive and interested in learning more. but they don't live with it themselves, so even though they know what it is, they don't know what it is, ya know? their knowledge is all second hand. as wonderful as my people are, when i'm really feeling my aphantasia and getting into those sad thought spirals, talking with them about it just isn't the same as it would be to talk with someone else who has aphantasia and has dealt with the same issues and feelings about it

i guess in the end i just want what we all do: community. when i find someone else with aphantasia, i don't wanna be like a dog seeing another dog because i'm so starved for contact with other folks like me; i wanna be like someone recognizing another member of a long distance club i regularly participate in, like hey! same hat! and then go about the rest of my day because i'm satisfied with the community i have. ya know?

anyways yes this is a free invite to message me if you have aphantasia or think you might have it and you wanna compare notes and chat about shared experiences, or alternately if you know someone who has aphantasia or are just curious about it and want to learn more about it :D

#i almost made the ah longer to better convey the sense of existential panic #but long nonsense words like that or strings of emojis can be hell for folks with screen readers #aphantasia #loneliness #the intense desire for community #just neurodivergent things #maybe #cause like yeah obviously aphantasia impairs my ability to do certain things in a way that causes distress #but does that make it a disability?#cause disability feels like way too big and important a word for my experience with aphantasia #like i'm being overdramatic about something that doesn't actually impact me that much #but then again it does significant affect the way i interact with and see the world #and it is literally a neurological condition #can i call myself neurodivergent?#do i have a right to use that identity and claim it as my own?#language is hard #long post

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batmanisagatewaydrug · 3 years

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how does one like. prepare for penis-in-vagina sex for the first time (as someone with a vagina)? what exactly do you do with lube and how do you know if it's safe to put up there? how do you manage pain and how much pain is "normal" or at least not cause for concern?

hi anon,

what an exciting question! I apologize in advance for how long this is likely to get, but you've given me such a rich topic to speak about.

first and foremost there's the same advice that I'd give to anyone planning on having any kind of sex with a new sexual partner for the first time: talk about it! talk about the parts that are exciting to you, the parts that you might be a little nervous about, things you want to try and things that are definitely off limits. most importantly, establish that everyone involved is aware of the fact that doing something for the very first time ever can be messy and strenuous, and that it may be necessary to stop what you're doing midway through if things don't go according to plan. talk about appropriate ways to provide comfort and aftercare if things need to come to an abrupt stop, and maybe even go as far as planning a set date to try again if this venture is less than satisfactory. knowing that you've already set aside time to try again with more information and experience can help alleviate a lot of the pressure that can come from feeling like you've only got one shot to do it right.

for a person with a vagina I would definitely recommend some self-exploration, especially if none has already occurred. in addition to being fun and cool, solo sexual endeavors (read: masturbation) can provide a great roadmap for your own patterns of sexual response, including but not limited to: what kind of touch you like and don't like, the depth of penetration you currently enjoy, and what your relationship with climax and orgasm looks like. while that information may not translate 1:1 to partnered sex, owing to the very different circumstances and stimuli, it's definitely better than not knowing shit or fuck about your body and it's sexual response.

and hey, speaking of climax and orgasm: they're cool, but I need you to relinquish any ideas about that being the most important part of sex right now. (this goes for any kind of sex btw, not just in p-in-v.) the absolute worst thing you can do to ruin your own experience is to put an outsized amount of pressure to achieve a certain result; sex works best when you and your partner(s) are able to exist in the moment and respond organically to what you're feeling. it works worst when you're constantly consulting an invisible pocket watching wondering why the fuck you haven't cum yet and if you're taking way too long and making things weird for everyone. just... let it go. if there should be any "goal" of having sex, it's to delight in exploring another person's body until the point you're no longer feeling that delight and announce that it's time to stop. simple as that. if an orgasm happens to occur that's splendid, but it's literally just a series of muscles spasms in response to repeated stimuli - not a reliable indicator that you did or didn't do sex correctly.

and as long as we're talking about orgasm it's also worth pointing out that people with vaginas are statistically extremely unlikely to orgasm from vaginal penetration alone. most are much more likely to cum as a result of activities often dismissively rereferred to as foreplay, particularly attention being paid to the clitoris. differentiating between "foreplay" and "real sex" is a fool's game; it's all sex and it's all important. talk to your partner(s) about what you want and need.

as for your lube question: lube can go anywhere and everywhere - on fingers, on penises or sex toys, spread helpfully around the entrances of bodily cavities. any non-flavored lube should be safe to do the job (flavored lube most often contains sugar and the only orifice it should enter is the mouth), although obviously you may want to experiment with different textures and materials. for a beginner I'd generally recommend water-based lubricants, but the world is your oyster! if you're ever worried about potential allergens, just dab a little inside the delicate skin of your inner wrist and see if anything red/itchy ensues.

now, pain: it's pretty normal to experience a bit of discomfort and "????" the first time you try to put something in your vagina in a sexual context, but if at any point the thought crosses your mind that you'd rather not be doing this, actually, then ta-da - that's time to call it quits! don't inflict any "oh but I should be able to deal with this" on yourself - if it hurts in a way you're not enjoying, it's time to tap out. you can try again later, or never, or whatever, but what matters most is mitigating the pain you're feeling in that exact moment.

sidebar: a little bleeding after this is 100% normal, although not for the silly hymen-related reasons that everyone assumed. you're much more likely to experience vaginal microabrasions if you haven't used enough lube, which can cause some minor spotting afterward. this is actually normal after penetrative sex at any point in your life, no matter how many times you've done it, but it can be especially common when you're first figuring out that whole shindig.

#sex edventures 2022

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titan-fodder · 3 years

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Prima Vista Part I

Rating: E (explicit; mdni) Pairing: Mike Zacharias x fem!reader wc: ~ 9.7k Warnings: dubious consent (because of alcohol), just copious amounts of sex, oral, squirting, 69ing, college shenanigans, obnoxious frat boys, terrible fashion choices A/N: At long last, here we have the beginning. Massive thanks to @pleasantanathema and @whats-her-quirk who have been cheering for me since I told them I wanted to right a “little college AU” for a “little collab” June and I have been planning for a while. Also, I don’t know where I’d be without Lauren’s fraternity knowledge, so extra thanks for that, babe. I hope everyone has as much fun with this fic as I did.

God, you hate frat boys.

Their sense of entitlement, all their fucking house pride. Brother this, brother that. It's annoying. Add in the factors of being an athlete on top of it, and they're downright insufferable.

So it makes absolutely no sense that you're at a fucking Pi Kappa Alpha party.

Your friend, Hitch, dragged you here (naturally), and it wasn't like you could really object considering she's the only real friend you have on campus. You study together and switch off between dorms to watch movies and bitch about classes. She's the complete opposite of you in many different ways, but you soul-bonded over biology and that was that.

Unfortunately, Hitch decided she would leave you to your own devices almost immediately, opting to skip over to a game of beer pong and flirt with a boy in her statistics class. You have no idea why considering he has a fucking bowl cut, but she's been talking about him for weeks now.

The party is filled with loud music and too many people with red solo cups. There's no way they're all of age, so you're already paranoid that the cops are gonna raid the place, but there's nothing you can do besides leave. It's a tempting thought.

Before you can, though, there's an uproar in the kitchen, and curiosity gets the best of you. Moving from your place against the wall, you make your way over to peek in and see what's going on. A large group of frat boys, what you think are sorority girls, and whoever else wants to join are raising their cups to cheer. An especially loud voice rings out above the rest, "One win down, eleven more to go!"

Claps and supportive shouts are nearly deafening.

"I think we can do it! Do you think we can do it?"

More cheers, more hollers.

"Let's hear it for UC lacrosse!"

You have to cover your ears this time. Should have known this party was to celebrate the win earlier that day.

When the crowd parts, you see the ringleader, Erwin Smith who is very well-known on campus for three reasons: he will talk your ear off about history if given the chance, he's irritatingly gorgeous, and he will fuck any pretty girl with a pulse.

Again—you fucking hate frat boys.

To ease your bad mood and possibly encourage you to have some semblance of a good time, you shuffle further into the kitchen to grab a drink. You feel a little exposed, not dressed like many of the other girls who are either in rompers or the classic sorority chick outfit (giant college shirts that cover their shorts). You are in a crop top, torn shorts, and a floral cardigan. Not your best outfit, not your worst.

There's no way you're touching any of the pre-poured cups or the jungle juice, opting for an unopened can of mediocre beer.

You feel someone approach you from behind, glance over your shoulder to see nothing but a broad chest covered by a fucking hawaiian shirt.

Craning your neck, you're met with another familiar face, one Mike Zacharias known as 1) Erwin's best friend, 2) one of the tallest guys on campus, and 3) the best lacrosse player on the team.

You haven't spoken a single word to him but that doesn't stop him from grinning at you, flipping shaggy hair from his face, and chanting a low, "Shotgun, shotgun, shotgun!"

"Are you god damn joking me?" You ask with a raised eyebrow.

"Hell no!"

"I have shotgunned a beer literally once in my life, and at least half of it ended up on my shirt."

"That's alright," Mike's smile shrinks to a smirk. "We're all about getting chicks wet in Pike."

Face falling, you scoff, "Yeah, okay, I'm leaving."

You sidestep him, cracking open the beer, but he follows close behind you. It makes a little bit of fear spike in your gut—everyone knows the horror stories that accompany many fraternities—but you're mostly just annoyed.

"Hey, what's your name again?"

Again. As if you've actually formally met before.

"Why do you care?"

Mike does not hesitate when he answers, "'Cause you look like you're having a shit time here, and I'd like to change that."

You roll your eyes, let your head loll over your shoulder to look at him again. If you're being honest with yourself, he's kind of extremely hot with his undercut and flippy hair, not to mention the stubble that's grown out just enough to make you think thoughts for a split second.

"A noble cause," you quip. "Truly."

He chuckles, watching too closely as you take a sip of your beer.

"So? Name?"

After too big of a swallow, you answer him, and light green eyes brighten a little.

"Oh, you're Hitch's friend, right?"

Of course that would be your only identifier on campus. Hitch is insanely pretty and very outgoing. It makes sense that people just know you as her tag-along.

It doesn't stop you from feeling slightly offended, though.

"Yeah, and you're Erwin's friend, right?"

"Among other things," he snorts. "Mike Zacharias." He holds out a massive hand that you eye before taking, figure you shouldn't be too much of a bitch and make a bad impression on the most highly regarded frat at the college.

"I know who you are, dude. Not many people don't."

"Aw, flatterer."

That grin is back on his face, lopsided and far too charming, and you definitely need to get away from him before you down a couple more beers.

"Freshman?" He pries, and somehow you wind up at the staircase, leaning against the wall and praying he'll just stand beside you instead of caging you in.

He does, and you let out a breath of relief.

"Sophomore."

His eyebrows shoot up for a second. "Fuck, you've made it through a whole year flying under my radar?"

You give him a wholly unimpressed look. "Wow, you really know what to say to a girl, don't you?"

"That came off as shitty, sorry. I just mean, like, you're super cute. Feel like I would have committed you to memory if I'd seen you."

Your face heats up probably more than it ever has in your life, but you still snap, "We haven't had a single class together, I never go to your games, and this is the first Pike party I've been to."

Mike nods. "Ah, that explains it. Just haven't given anyone a chance to notice you."

"Sure, let's go with that."

Another several sips. You hiss at the taste, and Mike laughs.

"Can't handle beer?"

"Can't handle shitty beer."

"Ouch. Want me to grab you something else?"

He really doesn't seem to understand the warnings all girls have heard over the years. That, or he just doesn't care. You don't know him well enough to pass that kind of judgement.

"Uh, no. I always make my own drinks at parties."

"That's understandable." Except it isn't. He doesn't have a clue.

"Well, you can go grab one, and I'll just finish this one for you. Don't want it to go to waste."

It's your turn to smirk now. "That desperate to swap spit, Zacharias?"

"Like this?" He laughs through his nose. "Nah. But I can think of other ways."

"We've been talking for literally two minutes."

"I'm perfectly capable of making decisions in two minutes."

"Not any good ones obviously."

Tilting his head, Mike thinks out loud, "Can't tell if that's an insult aimed at me or yourself."

"Take it however you want. I don't really care."

His eyes glint with amusement. There's no way you're escaping this any time soon.

Long, thick fingers close around the top of your can, and he gently tugs it out of your hand then keeps those eyes locked with yours as he takes a sip.

"Gross." You try to keep the teasing tone from your voice.

"Just go get another drink."

You actually listen, mostly to get away from him but also because you could go for something easier to stomach.

A game of King's Cup is going on in the kitchen, a five obviously being drawn because everyone suddenly pantomimes holding a steering wheel. It's surprisingly fun to watch, so you post up next to the counter after mixing orange and pineapple juice with rum.

"Four's whores!"

"Categories! Different beers!"

"Seven heaven!"

"Ayyy, waterfall!"

You shake your head as everyone drinks for way too long. Some people are already swaying in circles where they're sitting. Others are simply red-faced.

"Wanna play?"

"Jesus! You came outta nowhere."

Mike looks too smug for your liking, but doesn't say anything, just crushes the empty can in his hand and throws it into the trashcan next to the back door, all gooseneck and perfect arch.

"Let me guess—you're reigning champ at beer pong."

"Nah," he waves you off. "That's Erwin and Nile. King's Cup however…"

"King's Cup isn't even a competition. It's just flipping cards and getting fucked up."

"Well, yeah, but it's still fun."

You let out a heavy sigh, eyes still trained on the game going on, then concede, "Once this one is over, I'll play. Just to get you off my back." And because he won't have the chance to talk to you for the duration of the game.

"Excellent."

You manage to finish your drink by the time the round ends, have to rush to make another as Mike strides over to the table and steals the two seats that have been vacated. They're right across from each other. You don't know if you'd prefer that or just sitting next to him so he can't stare at you.

Sauntering over, you plop down and place your drink in front of you. The guy to your right is quick to introduce himself with hooded eyes and a self-assured smile. You give him basically the same treatment that you've been giving Mike, making him pout and turn away as a freckled girl deals out the cards.

It's fast paced, and you find yourself drinking more than you'd planned. Mike picks you as his buddy (of course), and the guy next to you makes everyone drink for nearly thirty seconds straight when he pulls an ace.

Still, you find yourself laughing as people scream and curse. You catch eyes with Mike often, and as you finish your second drink, he begins looking very attractive. More attractive than before. So attractive that you allow him to pour your third cup.

"If you roofied this, I'm gonna be real upset with you," you tell him just before taking a sip. He added more rum than you did, but that doesn't surprise you.

"Hey, one of Pike's virtues is being a gentleman."

As soon as he says it, about seven people around the table shout, "Pi Kappa Alpha!" like some kind of sports team, and you roll your eyes so hard it hurts.

You're drunk after this game. And, then you make another drink and get plastered. Meandering around the rest of the party, bodies begin to blur together, the music fades in and out, and you barely know what you're saying to Mike anymore as he follows you close behind in the same state. For every drink you've had, he's had two, and now he's walking around with a cup full of jungle juice nodding at his brothers, smiling at all the girls who look at him.

His room is downstairs unlike most of the others, right at the end of the hallway. It makes it far too easy to end up inside, but as soon as the door closes and his huge hands find your hips, your world disappears entirely.

The first thing you feel when you wake up is a nauseating pounding in your head. The second is a very large body behind you.

God dammit, you think, trying to recall the events of the night before.

Pi Kappa Alpha. Hitch left you, so you hung out with… Mike Zacharias? From the lacrosse team?

Frowning, you try to look over your shoulder, but all you can really see is a head of hair. However, you can feel the coarseness of his beard against your bare shoulder, and that's enough to solidify that it is indeed Mike behind you.

Shifting some brings more of your physical state to your attention—your naked chest under the blanket, the way your legs are pressed together, your pussy between your thighs… swollen? Jesus, what did he do to you last night? You can also feel something dry and crusty on your stomach which is both disgusting and relieving. At least he had enough sense to pull out.

Luckily, his arm isn't wrapped around you which makes it much easier to sit up on your elbow. It takes you a while to locate your clothes around the room from where you are, and even then, all you can find are your shorts, shoes, and bra. You peer around, trying not to groan at the headache threatening to make you black the fuck out all over again, but that pounding as well as the nauseating churning of your stomach is making it difficult.

You slide out of the bed, basically crawling to the little pile of discarded clothes. As you fumble with fastening your bra, you glance around one more time in search of your shirt and cardigan, but it’s no use. What you do see, however, is the obnoxious Hawaiian shirt Mike had been wearing the night before, and well… You’d rather not leave the Pike house topless, so…

Snatching it off the floor, you slip your arms through the giant sleeves and somehow manage to button up about half of it. Then, you’re flying out the door, desperate to be in your own dorm, curled over your own toilet, in your own clothes.

Oh, thank god his room wasn’t upstairs, you praise, trying to remember the way to the front door. There are numerous bodies and tipped over cups to navigate through, and you cringe at the various odors that assault your senses.

You see the door from across the room, so close and getting closer as you try not to trip over anything, but as you pass the kitchen, you hear a smooth, familiar voice greet, “Good morning,” in a smug way.

Erwin is leaning against a counter, smirking over a steaming cup of coffee. He’s wearing only sweatpants, his hair is a little mussed, and for a split second, you understand why he pulls so many girls.

Still, you roll your eyes and continue moving—a classic DNE situation, but the frat boy doesn’t seem to get the message, instead calling out, “Nice shirt!”

“Fuck off, Smith,” is the only thing you utter before leaving, slamming the door behind you.

Mike easily catches the frisbee that spins directly at his face then quickly throws it back to try and catch Nile off guard. It works, and the brunet curses and has to go running after the flying disc.

A few girls watching from the nearby fountain clap and yell his name, wriggling fingers in a wave as if he can actually see that far away. Mike gives one wave of his own hand then turns back to the grass where Nile is jogging back to his place.

“You did that on purpose, you asshole!” He spits.

Mike shrugs his shoulders, yells back, “Get better at frisbee, and you won’t have this problem!”

Nile throws the plastic so hard that it flies off toward the fountain, making all those girls scream and dive for cover.

“Yeah, I’m not getting that,” Mike shakes his head. Nile drags his fingers down his angular face before setting off on yet another trek, apologizing profusely then standing around to flirt like usual.

Blowing hair out of his face, Mike considers joining his brother, but before he can, he sees a familiar figure turning on the sidewalk, about to pass the fountain and head toward Hartley Hall.

His feet are moving before he really registers it, glad his long legs can carry him quickly even at a walk. Mike calls out when he’s a couple yards away, and you turn to him, eyes growing wide before you start to move faster.

He can just barely make out the words, “Nope. Not doing this,” and chuckles, catching up the rest of the way.

“Hey, chill, I just wanna talk.”

You turn to look at him, head tilted up, squinting against the sun, and Mike has never been more thankful for his height because you look so god damn cute all small and irritated with him.

“What is there to talk about? I don’t even remember anything.”

“Yeah, neither do I,” he says, lacing fingers together behind his head. “Shame.”

“Whatever.”

Mike tries and fails to hide a snort, nods at Nile as you both pass him and the gaggle of girls surrounding him. Mike has no doubt his friend will get at least one phone number out of it, if not all of them.

“Did you at least have a good time before you blacked out?” He ventures.

You shrug your shoulders, hitch your backpack up a little higher. “Maybe. But, if I was just around you the whole time, probably not.”

“Aw, come on! What did I ever do to you?”

“You need a list?”

Mike nods. “Would probably help.”

“For brevity's sake, I’ll just say that you started the night trying to get a literal stranger to shotgun a beer and ended the night fucking said stranger and… Not holding back, apparently.” Mike frowns, about to ask what you mean by that, but you elaborate before he can. Voice dropping, you question, “Do you have any idea how fucking sore I’ve been for the last few days? What the fuck do you even have hidden in those stupid shorts?”

“I’d be happy to show you again.” He grins sideways, and when you shoot him a venomous look, he figures it’s time to change the subject. “Anyway, I may have done that and more, but you’re the thief.”

“Excuse me?”

Mike tries to sound nonchalant as he accuses, “Stole my shirt and everything." Honestly, he's a little upset that he didn’t actually get to see you wearing it.

“I—”

“That’s my favorite shirt, you know?”

You laugh. Finally. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“That shirt is fucking heinous, okay? You’re lucky I didn’t burn it.”

“Does that mean I can have it back?”

You make a little noise in your throat, something between a grumble and a growl, but you check your phone and tell him, “Fine. My next class isn’t for another couple of hours, so just…Follow me.”

It takes immense effort to not skip to your dorm like a little kid, but Mike is excited. He’s not gonna try anything weird, but just seeing your space? He’ll be able to get a better feel for you. So far, all he knows is that you live and breathe sarcasm and can’t handle your liquor well. It’s enough to get him a little more than interested, but it’s not enough to go off of.

The two of you gain a few looks as you make your way through the shared study space of the dormitory, heads turning, eyebrows raising in recognition. No one should be all that surprised; it’s not like Mike and Erwin haven’t frequented a lot of these rooms.

You lead him down a hallway, and Mike looks at all the little dry-erase intro boards hanging outside of every door. He’s a little surprised to see that the one by yours isn’t blank. Your name is written in bubble letters, surrounded by little hearts, and when you catch him looking at it, you’re quick to tell him, “Hitch.”

“Ah. Of course.”

He follows you inside, staying by the door to not invade too much of your space, but he doesn’t even try to be subtle as he looks around the small room. Pennant for the college hung up over a cork bulletin board that’s a mess of photos and sticky notes. Cluttered desk with just enough of it cleared to fit a laptop. Tiny succulents on the window sill. Double bed covered in a quilt. And there, in the open closet, Mike catches sight of his shirt—pastel pink and littered with palm trees.

After dropping your backpack on your bed, you step over to the hanging clothes and grab it, muttering, “Ridiculous,” as you hand it over.

Mike laughs as he slings it over his shoulder. “You know what’ll make you hate it even more?” You quirk an eyebrow, probably doubting that anything could, but your entire face falls when he informs you, “I have matching shorts to go with it.”

“No you do not.”

“Definitely do.”

“That should be a crime. You should be arrested.”

He chuckles, has a retort on the tip of his tongue, but something catches his eye—a bookshelf tucked away in the corner by your bed overflowing with novels and knick-knacks. Mike sees a particularly thick paperback, recognizing the black background and small desert picture on the spine.

“Bro!” He walks over, plants a hand in the middle of your mattress, and reaches for it. “Is this fucking Dune?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“This is, like, my favorite book, dude.”

“Seriously?” You sound just as disbelieving as you do disinterested.

Mike begins flipping through it, scanning over highlighted passages as he nods. “I have the whole series back home, but I only brought this one and Messiah with me to college.”

He straightens up but keeps a knee on the edge of the bed, and you plop down to sit on it, watching him closely as he continues to look over the notes scribbled in the margins.

“I had to read it in high school," you tell him. "Then my cousin gave me a lot of the books after I talked with him about it one time. I haven’t gotten around to reading them, though.”

“You really should,” Mike urges. “I mean, I know you probably have a shit ton of reading for classes, but if you ever get the chance, you should at least read the next two.”

“You some kind of closet nerd, Zacharias?”

“Kinda,” he admits, putting the book back on the shelf only to grab a worn copy of Fellowship of the Ring. “I mean, Erwin and a few others are well aware, but I don’t really broadcast it.”

“Not good for the cool guy image?”

“Nah, people are just more interested in other things,” he mumbles, eyes fixed on the tiny print.

“Mike Zacharias,” his gaze flicks to you as you laugh quietly. “Lacrosse god and big fucking geek.”

He closes the book and uses it to lightly hit you on the top of the head with it. You half-heartedly smack him right in his abs only to push against the muscle harder and ask, “Jesus Christ, what do you have under there?”

“You know, that’s the second time you’ve asked what I have under my clothes,” he points out, a little too satisfied. “Better watch out, or I’m gonna start getting ideas.”

You huff, but your hand is definitely still on his stomach, unmoving but warm through his shirt. Mike told himself he wouldn’t do anything weird once he got here, but you’re already on the bed and touching him, and he’d kind of really like to have this particular experience while sober, so he very slowly takes your wrist and moves it away.

It makes you look up at him, a question dancing in your eyes as your lips part. Mike makes sure his own stare conveys everything he’s thinking, wishes he could just transplant his thoughts into your brain so that he can put you a little more at ease around him.

You’re onto him, though, tugging your hand from his grip and blinking a few times. He figures you’re about to point to the door and tell him to take his fucking Hawaiian shirt and leave.

Instead, you pull on the fabric covering his ribs so that he loses his balance and has to catch himself before crashing into you. It puts his face level with yours, and you take the opportunity to kiss him—hard, desperate, and a little confused judging by the way you’re frowning.

Mike grunts, holding himself up with the arm on the side of your hips then uses the other to slide under the thigh closest to him and pull you further onto the bed. He’s straddling you in no time, up on his knees so that he doesn’t crush you.

Hearing the sound of shoes hitting the ground, he tugs his shirt off over his head, and then he’s curling over you again. Your mouths grow slick with spit. He slides his tongue past your lips, and you arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair. Mike pushes you back down so that he can strip you down to your bra and panties then takes the time to rid himself of his shoes and shorts.

“Oh, fuck,” he hears you breathe, and when he glances up at you, he finds you staring at what he knows is an intimidatingly large bulge under his boxer briefs. “It makes sense now—the soreness.”

Mike chuckles, slots his forearms on either side of your head and mutters, “Yeah, sorry about that.”

You lick his lips and he bites yours, bodies clashing together as he grinds himself against your covered pussy. Eventually Mike is able to snake a hand down your body, making sure to brush over your ribs so that you squirm beneath him. Fuck, he already loves the way you squirm. And, when he moves your panties to the side and teases your little hole, already wet just from making out, Mike discovers that he loves the way you moan too.

He’s slow as he pushes a finger in, groaning when you clench around it. Pumping it in and out, he gently works you open and wonders if he was courteous enough to do this the other night. He hopes he was.

You spread your legs for him, start bucking into his hand, especially when he hits that special spot inside you.

“Fuck, fuck, fu—” You grab his face, bringing it close to yours again so that you can muffle curses against his lips.

When Mike adds a second finger, your jaw drops, and you start to tremble.

“Too much?” He asks.

You shake your head, stutter a breathy, “N-no. Just—ah—slow. Go slow.”

He moves to suck on your neck, promising, “I will.”

Mike waits until you’re dripping into his palm and spread about as widely as you can be underneath him. Then, and only then does he shimmy out of his underwear and question, “Condom?”

“Bookshelf,” you huff. “In the jewelry box.”

When he opens it, a little ballerina spins, and Mike has to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. “That’s twisted.”

“Shut up.”

He grabs one of the gold packages and tears it open, then rolls the latex over his cock and discards the wrapper somewhere.

Mike only gives you his tip first, sits right inside your entrance so that you can squeeze him and get used to the feeling before he pushes in any more. You barely shift your hips back and forth, like an experiment. It’s just enough for Mike to see slick coating the end of the condom, and he nearly starts drooling.

He presses in a little more, appreciates the way your eyes roll into the back of your head, then adds one more inch.

“Jesus Christ.” Your breaths are coming in short gasps, words slurring together. He’s not even halfway in, and you’re already fucked out.

Your cunt is spasming around him, and Mike tries to get you to relax more by lightly rubbing your clit with the pad of his thumb.

You leak around him, pussy slowly but surely opening up a little more so that he can slide in further. He gives a few shallow thrusts that make you whine, then reaches up to grab one of your pillows which only sends him deeper.

“God dam—”

Mike lifts you and shoves the pillow under your hips, smiles in a way he’s pretty sure you hate, then jokes, “Better to fuck you with, my dear.”

“In...sufferable…” The annoyed tone is lost when you cry out. Mike buries himself as far as he can without hurting you. He isn’t quite balls deep, but you feel so fucking good that he doesn’t even mind.

Starting a steady rhythm that has every upthrust dragging over your g-spot, Mike watches through foggy eyes as your mouth opens and closes, chest rising with stuttering breaths before you exhale and moan. He dips his thumb between your folds to gather a little bit of slick and return it to your clit. The circular motion makes you arch again, and Mike abandons the little bud for just a moment so that he can unclasp your bra and pull it off. The sight of your tits bouncing in time with his thrusts almost does him in, but he holds back, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to gather himself.

You’re just clamping around him so perfectly, pussy drooling and creaming on his cock, and Mike is not a quickshot, but for you—

He pulls out all at once, flips you so that you’re on hands and knees, then spreads you open to lick into you from behind.

“Holy—”

Mike’s cock is throbbing where it bobs against his stomach, but he can ignore it for the most part, focused on eating you out, sucking at your messy lips then dragging the flat of his tongue over your hole. He moves his face back and forth, wants to leave his mark on you in the form of stubble burn between your legs.

“Mike, Mike, fuck, please.”

He’s positive you can’t actually hear him when he teases, “Please what?” right into the crevice of your ass.

You growl, push against him, and swallow enough pride to beg, “Please fuck me.”

Biting his lip, Mike straightens up enough to watch his fingers disappear into your pussy. One, two, then a third that makes your messy entrance stretch for him. He lowers his face again, feather light licks around your sensitive hole, and when he twists his wrist so that he can tap on your spot, you come immediately.

A mixture of slick and squirt drips from your cunt and soaks into your quilt. Mike pushes more out as he continues to finger fuck you, humming at the way your arms give out and you fall against the mattress.

This is the perfect position for him. He replaces his wet fingers with his cock and ruts into you quickly, chasing after his own impending orgasm. Pretty little whimpers fall from your lips, fuck drunk as you babble, “Oh, god, Mike, Mike, fuck…”

He’s gripping your hips too tightly, pulling you back against him, shoving his cock deeper and deeper until he finally comes with a shudder and a low groan.

Mike pants for a few seconds, then leans down to press a few kisses to your spine, but instead of the usual happy sighs he gets from most girls, you just roll your shoulders and mutter, “Stop that.”

He does, then pulls out, takes a second to stare at your pussy—worked open from his size and still dripping. It would make a very pretty picture, but Mike wouldn’t dare try that with you.

You roll onto your back, a huff of air leaving your lungs as you scrub a hand over your face then tilt your head to him. It looks like you have something to say, but you just chew on your bottom lip, eyes moving from Mike to the door.

And, he can take a hint. You don’t have to say it.

With a self-deprecating snort, he pulls the condom off, tying it then tossing it into the trashcan by your bed.

“Yeah, okay,” he nods. “Let me just…” Mike tugs his clothes back on, kindly tosses you your top so that you can cover yourself like you obviously want to.

He makes sure to grab the Hawaiian shirt that brought him here in the first place, tossing it over his shoulder then striding to the door.

Chancing one more glance at you, you force a smile and try to pad his bruised ego. “Don’t worry, it was good. You were good. It’s just not gonna happen again.”

Mike fights a smirk, raises a hand in a wave, then steps out.

Not gonna happen again, he chuckles to himself. Yeah, right.

You don't understand how this keeps happening, how you keep ending up in bed with Mike fucking Zacharias.

This time you had gone to the disgusting bar right off campus, got one whole drink in your system before the familiar trio walked in. They were all in khakis and pastels—Erwin in blue, Nile in yellow, Mike in pink. Again.

You actually slammed your head down on the bartop because despite how basic he looked in his light polo, Mike was still hot.

Is still hot.

Back at the Pi Kappa Alpha house, you're a mess of limbs on his bed. You take immense pleasure in tugging his shirt off, and once his arms are free again, he's lifting the hem of your little skirt and mouthing over your thong.

You're more than tipsy after a couple more drinks but nowhere near as drunk as you were the first night. It hadn't taken much convincing from Erwin for you and Hitch to play pool with them, and when Mike had come up behind you to help you line up your shot, you knew you were a goner.

While he's busy between your legs, you take off your shirt and bra. Green eyes flick up as soon as you toss both articles on to the floor, and without any hesitation, Mike reaches up to grope your tits.

He's clumsy and distracted as he tongues over the warmth pooling in your underwear, squeezing plump flesh and pinching your nipple so that you whine and push your hips further into his face.

Mike groans, just as drunk if not more so. He's messy as he kisses your thighs, nearly rips your thong when he pulls it off of you.

His tongue feels good, too fucking good as he laves over your entrance, soothing an ache that isn't quite there anymore but definitely was a few days ago.

"Taste so fucking good," he grumbles, slurping and sucking and making you squeeze your thighs around his head.

"Okay," you pant. "Okay, okay." You grab him by the hair and lift his head from you, stomach flipping at the sight of the bottom half of his face absolutely covered in slick.

God dammit, why is he so sexy?

Your mouth waters, and the thought of possibly giving him head this time crosses your mind. You're just inebriated enough to stay relaxed, didn't drink to the point of throwing up, and he has gone down on you the last two times so...

Lizard brain taking over, you sit up, tell him to flip over, then start making your way down his body.

Mike grabs you before you can turn to face him, fingers digging into your thighs and pulling you down to sit on his face.

"Fucking—I'm trying to blow you, for Christ's sake."

He moves his head just enough to tell you, "So? You can do that while I do this."

And, he's not wrong. It just means that you're gonna get distracted.

For a while, all you can really do is control your breathing and undulate on top of him, but eventually you fall to your elbows and lick up his shaft from base to tip.

Mike really does have a nice cock—a beautiful cock—bigger than you've ever taken in terms of both length and girth, and veiny in the perfect way. Even his balls make your pussy throb, large and round, the right just slightly bigger than the left and now dripping with saliva as you lower your mouth further and further onto his cock.

The feeling of his tongue buried in your cunt is making you delirious, eyes rolling, muscles going slack as you gurgle around the tip hitting the back of your throat.

Mike groans into you, his legs starting to shake, and you assume in your half aware state that he's trying to not just skull fuck you into oblivion.

You know you're making a mess, both on his face and on his cock. The fingertips that have been holding you open shift, one of them slipping into your clenching hole, and your hips begin to move on their own volition, riding what he'll give you while moving your tongue back and forth.

You've only taken about half of him, doubt you can take any more. He's hot and heavy in your mouth, and when you pull off to breathe, you can taste pre cum on the back of your tongue.

It triggers something in you, makes you raise up and clumsily turn around so that you can work him inside of you.

Mike groans a long, "Fuuuck," and immediately starts thrusting upward.

You're lucky you're as wet as you are, but the burn that comes with getting so stretched out still makes you hiss. You brace yourself on his broad chest, feeling the dampness of sweat forming a sheen on him, and your own body starts to feel too hot.

You had wanted to ride him to feel in control of the situation for once, but you quickly realize it's not gonna happen, Mike gripping your hips and moving you how he sees fit.

He's raw this time, a thought that should scare you, but he feels so good even through the discomfort. Every vein and ridge hits all the sweet spots inside of you, the flared head of his cock smooth as it presses just where you need it to.

You're squirting again—he just seems to be able to fuck it out of you. It's not the high you're looking for, but the release in pressure still feels divine.

Mike seems to enjoy it too because he looks down at where you're connected, swears at the way you gush on his cock, then starts swiping fingers over your clit so quickly it almost hurts.

More fluid leaks from you, and Mike breathes a low, "Come on, baby, come on, 'm gonna fuck you dry tonight."

Hearing him talk like that—his hand rubbing over your overstimulated clit, his thick cock threatening to split you in two—causes heat to travel up your legs and down your arms until it settles in your stomach and floods you.

You cry out, stars and tears behind your eyes as Mike keeps going, taking everything he can from you until he's laying in a huge wet spot in his bed.

He lifts you just in time to shoot cum upward on your chest, white splattering then dripping down in strands to pool on his stomach.

You stare down at him, mouth hanging open and find him looking up at you with the same expression.

It's hands down the best sex you've ever had, but you're not about to tell him that. Instead, you dismount him like the fucking horse he is and stand on weak legs, actually have to lean on the bed for support.

"Just stay the night." His voice is deep and full of gravel. It's entirely too hot.

"Absolutely not." You shake your head, grab your shirt and his boxers then ask, "Where's the nearest bathroom?"

"Down the hall on the right, but you don't have to sneak out the window or anything. Just use the front door if you're tryin’ to run away."

You can't help but snort. Stupid. "I'm not trying to escape, dummy. I just need to pee."

"Oh. Right."

You slip out of the room, hoping it's late enough for everyone to be asleep, but you have no such luck as the door to the bathroom opens and fucking Erwin steps out.

He hums, looking you over for a moment as his lips lift on one side.

"Don't say anything," you grit through your teeth.

He holds his hands up in surrender, chuckles, acting all innocent. "Wasn't going to."

You squint, not believing him for a second, then move around him to get to the bathroom. Before you can shut the door, you hear him mutter, "Another one bites the dust," and consider running out and strangling him.

"Please please please come with me to this game," Hitch begs, her hands clasped together, imploring eyes wide and doe-like.

"No. You have plenty of other friends to go with. You don't need me there."

"But, I want you to be there. It's gonna be such a good match. Rival schools and all that."

You roll your eyes. "Hitch, in all the time you've known me, have you ever seen me give a single fuck about sports?"

"No, but you'll finally get to see Mike and Erwin and Nile play."

"All the more reason not to go."

"Do you not like them or something? Why wouldn't you like them? Everybody likes them!"

She doesn't know, and you don't want her to. She had been too caught up with that Marlowe kid at the party, then was kept busy playing pool with Nile to see you and Mike slip out of the bar together.

It's the only secret you've ever wanted to keep from her. You will take it to the grave.

"I just… I just don't, okay? I get a… Sleazy vibe from all of them."

You really don't. Not exactly. You're not a big fan of the 'fuck-every-chick-on-capus' mentality, but most college boys think like that. Only difference is these three can actually achieve it.

Hitch crosses her arms over her chest and gives you a look you've seen on your mother's face many times, usually when she has a point to prove.

"You know I'm just gonna keep bothering you until you come to one, so why not just get it outta the way?"

And, there's that point.

"Ugh." You know she's right, and you really can't put up with this all semester. "Fine, but I'm gonna bitch the entire time."

Hitch squeals and claps, bouncing where she stands. "Yes! Wouldn't have it any other way."

You dress in school colors, put your hair up so that it won't be on your neck as the sun beats down, then take Hitch's little hatchback to the field. You try to talk her into sitting toward the back of the crowd that's gathered on the bleachers, but she just pulls you to the front without acknowledging your request.

Even with the helmets, you can easily make out who's who, mostly because of their size. Mike and Erwin are doing some kind of pregame ritual where they hit their sticks together, shout something, and chest bump. It's the most alpha thing you've ever fucking seen and makes you question why you ever thought screwing one of them was a good idea.

To be fair, you never really did think it was a good idea. It just kind of happened. Three times.

But, it needs to stop.

You repeat that thought to yourself as you watch Mike sprint across the field and launch the ball into the goal several times. You repeat it as he dances around his opponents with ease, quick footwork until he can throw them off. You repeat it as he stands on the sidelines and takes his helmet off to shake out sweaty hair and squirt water into his mouth.

And, none of it really helps. Mike is pretty incredible on the field, especially with Erwin and Nile backing him up. Everyone in the stands is screaming, yelling their names and chanting. It's a little contagious, you have to admit. You get as far as clapping but refuse to actually cheer.

At some point, Erwin jogs over to the bleachers and waves his arms for everyone to get louder, and they sure do. Even through his helmet, you can see his sparkling white smile, and your own lips curl up as you shake your head at him. Unbelievable. He has all these people at his beck and call.

Erwin has to get back on the field, though, fueled by the crowd like the other nine players. They end up pulling ahead of the other team and finishing the game eleven to seven.

Naturally, Erwin announces a party at the Pike house, and naturally, Hitch drags you to it.

This one is even bigger than the last. It offends every one of your senses—too loud, alcohol permeating the air, bad drinks, worse dancing, and strangers rubbing against you as you pass them.

You give up on your beer before you’re even halfway through with it, just set the can on one of the counters and start milling around. You’d rather be anywhere else but here. Your head hurts from the game earlier, baking in the sun and not drinking enough water. Should’ve taken an Advil… And some Benadryl. Hitch wouldn’t have been able to bring you here if you’d been unconscious.

All of the lacrosse team is there, flanked with guys who won’t stop slapping them on their backs and girls who won’t stop batting their eyes and squeezing their biceps. It’s comical, really, the fairweather trend. There’s no way this would be happening if they’d lost their last three games. Instead, the team would be getting harassed and pestered, not so subtle comments about practicing more and replacing members. You’ve seen it all before.

Leaning against a wall, you watch it all unfold. It’s probably the most entertaining thing at the party other than the group of sorority girls dancing on a table. Things are getting out of hand already, and you would prefer not be here for the aftermath, but just as you're about to leave, Mike breaks away from the group and strides over to you.

“Hey, didn’t expect to see you.” He takes a sip from his cup, smiling around the rim.

You use your usual excuse: “Hitch,” and he nods.

“Right. Did you watch the game today?”

Crossing your arms, you mumble a, “Yes,” that Mike can’t hear but can definitely see.

He beams then asks, “You gonna tell me I played well? ‘Cause I did.” He’s all cocksure and giddy, and it makes your body run hot in a few different ways.

“I don’t think you need anyone else fawning over you,” you say with a condescending laugh.

“You mean you don’t want me to flex for you?”

“I’m leaving. Right now." When you push past him a little too roughly, it causes him to drop his cup, and your shirt is suddenly plastered to your chest and stomach. The white isn’t discolored, which leads you to believe, “Fuck, is this just straight vodka?”

“No, Christ,” he cringes at your wet state, looking genuinely apologetic. “It’s just water. Sorry.”

You scrunch your top up to wring it out, wondering what he’s doing drinking water instead of liquor, but you’re not about to pick on him for staying hydrated.

“It’s fine. I was about to leave anyway.”

He’s quick to stop you with a, “No, don’t. Just… change into one of my shirts or something."

Narrowing your eyes, you contemplate how many ways this can go wrong, how much you should not allow this, and even go as far as accusing, "You're just trying to get me in your room again."

"You wanna stay in a wet shirt?" Not really. "Come on."

He jerks his head toward the hallway, and you end up following him, grumbling the whole time because you swear to God if you end up on your back for him again, you're going to be very upset with yourself.

Mike beelines it for his dresser as soon as you're in the room, much quieter than the rager outside. He digs around in it, flipping all the way to the bottom then pulls out a heather gray tee.

"It'll probably still be a little big, but it's from high school, so you shouldn't drown in it."

He tosses it to you then, to your surprise, turns back to the wall to give you the privacy to change. You eye him the whole time, peeling off your top as well as your bra since it soaked through. His shirt still covers your little shorts, and you assume you look a lot like one of those sorority girls, but it's good enough, has that super soft feeling from being worn too much.

"Thanks. You can, uh… You can turn around now."

Mike looks over his shoulder, like he's making sure you're decent, then turns around fully.

"I was trying to get outta there anyway. Spilling a drink on you was a good excuse."

You open your mouth, choking on a scoff, then ask, "Did you do that on purpose?"

"No! It really was an accident. I'm glad it was just water, but I still feel bad."

You're squinting at him, but now you're curious about something else.

"Why'd you wanna get away from the party?"

Sighing, Mike shows a tired smile. "Honestly, I'm still worn out from the game. I'm already sore and covered in these god damn bruises. I just wanna relax."

"If you're covered in bruises, I can't imagine how the other team feels. You smacked the shit outta some of 'em."

"So, you were watching."

"I may have glanced up once or twice," you lie. "Anyway, why don't you just hide out in here?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "Erwin insisted I show my face, and I didn't want him to give me shit about being a recluse."

You can relate. It's why Hitch drags you everywhere. You wouldn't even leave your dorm for classes if you didn't have to.

Still. "Dude. You're definitely not a recluse. You're fucking everywhere. All the time."

"So? I can get tired too."

He's got a point.

"Can we just chill in here for a while?" He asks you.

"Why do you need me to chill? You basically just said you needed a break from social interaction."

"Yeah, but not all social interaction," he corrects with a small grin. "Please? I've got movies and video games, Zelda and shit."

Again, the contemplation kicks in, all the pros and cons. You know very well what this can (will) lead to, but you also want to escape the party. And, if Hitch whines about you leaving, you can tell her you were there the whole time. Not like it's a lie.

"Fine, but I have some stipulations."

"Oh, do you?"

"I do."

Mike waves a hand for you to go on. "Let's hear 'em then."

Holding up one finger, you tell him, "You have to let me snoop around your room—" he laughs. You lift another finger, "—and we are not, under any circumstances, having sex."

"Deal."

You tilt your head, taken aback at how quick he is to agree. "Wait, seriously?"

"Seriously. Go ahead. I'll pull up Hulu."

You hum, still suspicious, but start making your rounds, taking in photos from what you assume to be the high school soccer team he played on, then a fishing trip with Erwin, a middle-aged couple with a dog, and some pinned up tickets to sporting events he's attended.

He has a bookshelf against a wall, textbooks at eye level, but the top and bottom shelves are filled with sci-fi and fantasy novels that make you smile. His TV is fairly large, big enough to see the picture from his bed which is also sizable and draped with a plush comforter. The last thing that catches your eye is his closet, halfway open and full of jerseys and Polos. A few different pairs of shoes sit at the bottom, but pushed all the way in the corner are a few boxes of fucking Magic the Gathering cards.

"Oh, man. You really are a closet nerd. Like, literally."

"Huh?" Mike looks over at where you're kneeling, realizes what you're looking at and actually sounds self-conscious when he admits, "Yeah, uh, I wasn't joking the other day."

"I've never played—too technical for me—but my friends in high school did."

"There are baseball cards back there too if that makes me any cooler."

"It doesn't," you say bluntly before straightening up and reaching to shut the door to his room. Plopping down on the floor next to him (where he was smart enough to sit), you add, "But even I can admit it's kind of endearing."

"Oh yeah?" He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, that stupid lopsided grin on his too-handsome face.

"Don't get cocky, Zacharias."

"You wouldn't let me if I wanted to."

Both of you agree to a Batman movie, and you make yourself comfortable, kicking your sandals off and leaning against the bed behind you. You're a little too aware of Mike's body beside yours, but you're able to ignore it for the most part, keeping a few inches between your arms and legs. Of course, he still brushes against you when the movie ends and he takes the time to stretch. His shoulders roll, making his shirt strain over his back, and when he holds his arms out, linked at his fingers, you can't help but take a quick look at his bulging biceps.

"Fuck, I'm gonna feel like garbage tomorrow," he complains. You can see the bruises littering his arms, some of them thick lines while others are almost perfectly circular from where he was hit with the end of a lacrosse stick.

"You have any classes?" You ask.

"Just my ten o'clock and three o'clock."

You make a noise of acknowledgement then fall silent. You're not sure how to hold a conversation with him that isn't sarcastic or snippy since you haven't actually done a lot of talking in the first place.

"Sucks," is all you can come up with.

"It's alright. I've probably dealt with worse."

"Probably?"

"Well, nothing really comes to mind, but I'm sure I have."

You should get going. It's late, and you have a nine AM tomorrow. Plus, the longer you sit next to Mike, the more ideas pop up in your head. Dirty ideas. Ideas that will leave you disappointed in yourself.

"Well, I'm gonna head back. This has been…" You're unsure of what word to use, don't want to get his hopes up by saying 'fun'.

Mike figures you out and offers, "Tolerable?"

"Yeah, we can go with that. I'll get your shirt back to you sometime soon."

Mike chuckles and gets to his feet. "Just whenever you can." He grabs your wet top from the ground and holds it out to you, then reaches for the door as you slip on your sandals.

You feel him close behind you, close enough for his chest to push against your back when you straighten up. His arm is pressing into your side, hand curled around the knob and twisting it, but he's unable to open the door as you let your head fall against it.

"God dammit."

"Hm?" You can tell he's leaning down because his breath falls just over your ear.

"I said we weren't—"

He cuts you off, "But, you want to."

He's too hot and too smooth, and you can’t stop yourself from turning around and breathing, "Yeah, I want to."

It's different tonight. Mike takes his time undressing you, kissing and sucking your neck, your collarbone, your nipples that pebble against his tongue. It's unnerving even as you squirm and moan.

He eats you out lazily, flattening his tongue against your folds then dipping into your slit so that he can slip into your twitching hole.

When he adds a finger, you immediately grind down on it, silently begging him to work you open enough to take his cock, but he doesn't move any faster, apparently content to just drive you insane.

You're nearly begging by the time he turns you on your side and moves to lay behind you, hiking your leg up and pushing most of his length inside of you in one faultless motion that makes you choke and sob his name.

That stretch is back, delicious as it is painful as he splits you open. His thrusts are the same slow pace, cock dragging against gummy walls as he drapes an arm over you to toy with your swollen clit.

It takes you both longer than usual to come, but when you do, your whole body trembles against him, and you have to suck in several deep breaths until you feel like your lungs start actually filling with air.

Mike paints your back with warm cum, groaning right in your ear as he rubs against you, his cock sliding easily up and down your skin and making more of a mess.

That unnerving feeling blooms in your chest again, crawls up into your throat.

Tonight had been too casual, too natural. The way you hung out and watched a movie was already a little strange. Him fucking you from behind, holding you tight against his body, was too tender. And, now, after he leaves to grab a wet towel and uses it to clean your back, you find yourself searching for words again only to come up with passionate—intimate.

And, words like that scare you.

[ n e x t ]

#miche zacharias x reader #mike zacharias x reader #aot x reader #snk x reader #aot fanfiction #attack on titan fanfiction #mels prima vista #mels frat house

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