#is it all great? fuck no!!! but it's at least decent!!!

[captainlondonman]

Workie Cruising

Kenny was feeling horny, really horny. One of those hot days when your cock just gets hard and needs some attention. He could always have a good slow wank and watch his cum spray over the washbasin but better still would be to walk down the road to the local forest which was at times a great cruising ground and see who he might have some sex with. Yeah that was definitely a better idea. With his cock nicely stretched down his inside leg forming a decent bulge, it was on full show for whoever he might meet. As he reached the edge of the wood an old white van was parked in the layby. 

‘So at least someone is there looking ‘Kenny thought.

As he came into a small clearing he saw the driver of the van. It was a workie is full yellow HiViz, T shirt, soiled waistcoat, very dirty trousers tucked into mud covered boots. The guy was tall and built like a brick shithouse, tattoos covering both arms, shaved head with a tight beard and  the beginnings of an obvious beer belly pushing out the T shirt which was lifted at the front to show off a dark thick hairy chest. The guy looked very unclean to Kenny, not his type at all. Even when the workie put his large hand down to stroke his crotch showing off a big bulge, Kenny decided to walk on by and see who else might be better for his wank. The workie gave him a V sign and spat. Kenny thought he could get his rocks off with someone else but it would not be with him.

Moving on he came to another small clearing and remembered this was normally a good place where the guys came to shoot their load so he could wait there away from the workie. As he quietly stood there waiting for a pick up, a large tattooed came round his neck almost choking him.

‘What the f.. ‘Kenny tried to shout

‘What the fuck do you think ignoring me and trying to make me look as if I am a bit of shit. ‘The workie tightened his grip. Kenny knew exactly who it was as he felt the HiViz clothing press against his back

Christ the guy stank of body odour, dirt and stale smoke. Kenny wanted to gag but was unable to move or respond by the neck lock he was in. He felt the guy’s beard rub against the side of his face

‘You don’t pass a fucking workie especially when that workie is feeling horny and needing a blow job. Who the fuck do you think you are? A smarmy college kid sporting a decent hard on down his jeans. Well this guy has a bigger one than you mate. Feel it rubbing against that arse of yours?’

As the workie said it, Kenny felt the stiff prick rubbing against him. Shit he was right it was rock hard and big . With his head still in a stranglehold Kenny felt the workie’s other arm move round to his front and slide down to his crotch.

‘I may be almost choking the life out of you but that cock is telling me you love it. Nice and stiff like a fucking rod. Bet you are loving my cock in the HiViz nylon rubbing against you.’

As the workie said this he lessened the grip around Kenny’s throat, causing him to cough loudly and as he took in deep breaths so he still smelt the guy with his mix of stale cigarette smoke and dirt.

‘ou need to open the throat a bit more so you can take my cock all the way down that throat of yours. ‘

Feeling the guy whisper into his ear with the rough beard rubbing against the side of the face made Kenny feel so horny in spite of the fact he had nothing but distaste for the workie. To Kenny he was a pig but shit why was he feeling so excited.

Now get down of your fucking knees and take a good look at that bulge of mine in the Hi Viz.’

As Kenny knelt his face was looking straight at an enormous prick sticking almost straight out of the yellow nylon.

‘Go on give me a fucking rub as I like me cock being rubbed in my hiViz.’

Kenny could only obey but wanted more than ever to unzip and put his hand inside.

‘Well what are you waiting for. Unzip and see my piece of meat.’

As Kenny looked straight at the guy’s crotch and let his hand pull down the zip with difficulty due to the hard bulge his cock was making  he almost reeled back with the smell of stale piss and dried spunk. He wanted to gag and as he brought his head back the workie took hold and rammed his head against the yellow nylon.

‘Don’t you like the way my cock smells. It’s the way we workies are. No underwear so a nice exposed prick whenever we let the piss run down inside our legs and the drops of cum harden nicely. I ain’t washed for a few days so it’s nice and high for you. Take a few deep breaths and enjoy the smell, real workie stink.’

At first Kenny thought he was going to be sick but the more he inhaled the better the smell it was to the point that he was relishing it and his own cock was made more rigid. The fumes of the stale cock spread down through his body, taking over the clean air. He had to get that monster of a cock out of the HiViz and stuck his hand in and let it grip the shaft. He could hardly get his hand around it and he could feel the throbbing veins. With both hands he pulled it out and released it, the cock springing upwards so he could see the underside and the red glistening head exposed from the foreskin. The tip already had a good drop of precum and all Kenny wanted to do was lick that drop and taste the cum and the dirt of the cock.

‘Not bad eh. Us workies have big pricks and always ready for a blow job or a fuck. Always best done in HiVIz. I can see from your face that you love the smell as well as the size of my dick. It’s gonna be even better when down that throat of yours. Quit any idea of gagging, you just breathe deeply and as my cock ain’t been washed for days you have that stink to help. Now get a grip and start.’

Kenny put his hand around the shaft and leant forwards to lick the precum. As he swallowed so he got as much saliva into his mouth so the shaft could have some spit to ease it down. He let his tongue work the throbbing head and allow himself to savour the smell and size..

‘Shit man that tongue of yours has been round a few dicks in its time. I ain’t got all day , got to get back to work so let me feel the back of your throat.’

 As Kenny let more and more of the cock into his mouth so the workie grabbed hold of his head and started pressuring Kenny to take more and more. Instinctively with the soiled cock and the stench , his mouth opened as he wanted to devour the workie’s prick. His mouth opened as never before and the more pressure on his head by the workie the more the shaft vanished further and further down the back of his throat.. 

I wanna feel my pubes against your lips so keep going boy. Remember my cock is not staying put down your throat I want you to move it in and out and slowly at first so I get the full sensation. You will know when I am ready as I will be forcing your head back and forwards. Keep the spit going.’

‘Shit man you have my cock juice building up.’

 With that the workie took and full grip of Kenny’s head and started moving it back and forth at first slowly and then faster and faster. Kenny wanted every inch down his throat and could feel the guy’s cock now throbbing so hard he was close to coming.

‘I want you to swallow every last drop, Know what it’s like to take a workies spunk. That’s it ,fucking take the whole bloody length. Let it spurt all the way down that throat of yours right to the pit of the stomach.’

With one final push the workie shouted ‘Fuckin hell’  and his spunk roared out in waves of thick creamy cum with Kenny desperately trying to swallow as much as he could. It was too much to take and the cum started to run down his chin and onto his shirt. He wanted every last drop but the workie had too much spunk to swallow.

‘Bloody hell mate you suck like a real pro. The workie pushed Kenny back and thrust his still dripping cock back into his Hi Viz.

‘Any left over can run down my leg ‘he said. ‘Now stand up and let’s see you. Clearly it was too much for you to take though you did well. Its’ all the way down your chin and onto your shirt.’

‘Christ how am I gonna get home?’ Kenny said.

‘No probs mate. Take this HiViz waistcoat of mine and put it on. It will cover the cum marks. I’ve got plenty of HI Viz. Go on put it on and then a bit of me goes with you. Well for someone who turned up his nose at a workie you have managed well and now even are wearing a HiViz. Makes me fucking laugh. My name’s Don and you?’

‘Kenny’

‘Well now bugger off Kenny as I have to get back to doing some work. Drains today.’

As Kenny walked home making sure the HiViz was covering all the cum marks on his shirt all he could think of was the smell. Was it the waistcoat, the cum or just being with the bloke. The first thing he did on getting back was to strip off and get in to the shower to totally clean himself, using the strongest shower gel he had. When he got out the shower he realised that the gel had made little difference He could still smell the workie as if he was as bad. Still some BO,  still dirt still piss and cum. It would not wash away. For some unknown reason rather than put on of  his clothes he put the HiViz waistcoat back on. Putting it one he immediately felt that he needed a ciggie and can of beer. But he didn’t smoke and hardly drank beer but now it was a must. He needed to light up and let the ciggie smoke deep into his lungs. Noticing a small bulge in the pocket of the HiViz he put his hand and took out a packet of cigarettes and box of matches. How could they be there when all he wanted to do was smoke. He then opened the fridge and took out a can of beer that had been lying around for ages. Now he had the ciggie and the beer and it was what he wanted. Sitting on his sofa with his legs apart he looked down at his body. There was a change, but how. His legs seemed more hairy not a lot but definitely more and the hair from his pubes was now up past his belly. Again not a lot but he had never had hair there before. But his belly looked bigger. He had always been so careful with his diet but now the skin looked slightly flabby. Little tufts were sprouting out around d his nipples. Part of Kenny was surprised but for now he wanted only to light up and open that can.

He opened the can first and took and large swig and put it down to light up his first ciggie. But the way he lit up and put the ciggie into his mouth it was as if he had been doing it for years. As the smoke moved down into his lungs he felt the smoke take over his body. Another deep draw and he felt his cock stirring. His cock looked a bit bigger and he watched it grow rigid as he took another smoke.

The cigarette was making him not just hard but horny.

I need to good wank he said to himself. Putting his hand around his shaft he leant back in the sofa with his legs wide apart and the other hand held the ciggie.

Fucking hell a wank with a fag not bad. Don’t know why I haven’t done this before. It feels bloody great wearing the HIViz. With every draw on the fag his hand moved up and down his shaft quicker and quicker. With his final draw and the smoke enveloping his whole body he threw his head back and shouted 

‘Fuck me’ as the cum shot out in a long arc all the way up his chest, great globs of white spunk all the way up to the top of his chest.

Stubbing the ciggie out he took both his hands and rubbed the spunk into his chest.

‘No point in cleaning this up might as well it harden into my skin and make me smell a bit more.’

‘Shit I feel so fucking tired. But I need another fag after that and finish the beer first.’

After that he went to be still wearing the HiViz.

When he work up next morning he could sense the stench of dried cum of stale cigarette smoke and a couple of empty cans of beer. There were two butts in the dish,. Christ I must have woken up and had another he though unable to remember. All I know is that I need another fag now. When he went to get dressed he found that his shirt seemed too tight and he was hardly able to fasten up his chinos. Odd they fitted yesterday but his gut seemed even bigger than last night. The only things he could put on were his jogging suit with the elasticated waist. As he lit up again he looked at his hand and he could see it was now nicotined stained and the back of his hand was definitely hairier but he couldn’t care. However he was feeling horny again and could see his cock growing inside his joggers starting to make a large bulge.

‘Shit I can’t go out like this but I need to get up to the cruising wood again. He put on the HiViz waistcoat to help cover up his bulge as reached the entrance to the wood. The same white van was there, but parked along side it was a smart sports car. As he walked into the cruising ground the owner of the sports car was standing looking at Kenny. He was in his mid 20s tall, gym trained and good looking. He let his hand down to rub his crotch . He was exactly the type that Kenny went for but that was yesterday. Today he wanted to be dirty to be with a workie who stank, who smoked and who had a thick cock. Passing by the guy he just stared and walked on to the clearing he had been at yesterday. Standing against the tree was Don in the same HiViz but another waistcoat smoking a fag.

‘Thought you might be back. Don’t suppose I’m gonna get my waistcoat back. You might as well keep it ,looks as if it suits you. Wanna a smoke?’

‘Sure ‘Kenny replied going up to the workie. Don handed over the lit ciggie.

‘You had my cock in yer mouth yesterday now you have me ciggie. Looks as if you like a bit of me.’ 

As he said this he put an arm round Kenny and pulled him in letting ghis hand firmly stroke Kenny’s bum and bring their faces close to.

‘You smell as good as me. Stale smoke and beer. Do I smell dried cum on you?’

And with that he put his other arm up Kenny’s jogging top and let his hand explore the dried cum chest.

‘Fuck that was a good wank you had, plenty of cum there what a waste but it sure gives you a smell. Looks as if you want some of me and feeling that nice round arse of yours makes me in need of a fuck.’

 Kenny could feel the workies rock hard cock pressing against how own

‘ I ain’t got much time but I’m not leaving till you have had some spunk up that arse of you.’

With that the workie held back Kenny waistband and let his hand travel down until his fingers were searching for Kenny’s hole.

‘Just want to check that hole of yours will take my cock.’ As he said this he started inserting finger after finger into the opening until he had 4 fingers fully in. ‘Shit man I could almost fist you but at least you have plenty of room for me inside you. Now turn round.’

 As he pulled down the back of the joggers so the workie unzipped himself and took out his hard cock.

‘I ain’t washed since yesterday so me dick stinks of my cum and your spit. Great ain’t it? Now bend over a bit while I get some spit on me dick.’

Don let out a loud cough as he brought up a great gob of spit and then spat it over the long length of his shaft, rubbing in the thick spit.

‘A great gob there that’ll make it nice and easy to slip this cock of mine all the way up you.’

One of the workies arms grabbed the top of Kenny’s HI Viz and with the other he guided it to the hole and let the head rim in readiness to insert. As Kenny’s hole opened to take the cock he felt his muscles contract and let out a squeal of pain.

‘Relax mate and let those arse muscles of yours take me. Tell you what light up a ciggie from your HiViz. As Kenny lit up and took a deep breath of smoke into his lungs so his muscles relaxed and the workie started to press his cock further and further in.

‘What did I tell you. A ciggie always helps.’

Don brought both large hairy arms around Kenny and pulled himself in right up to the hilt as Kenny puffed more and more.

‘Don’t finish the fucking ciggie yet mate. Wait till I’ve had you.’

Kenny could feel his cock throbbing inside his trackies already showing a stain of precum. It was like having a bloody pole up his arse but what a fucking pole. He’d never had a cock that size before and decided he’d never have anything less again.

‘You are not the only one liking this mate. Look over there. We are being watched by that young toady. Got his cock out watching us. Still it’s you I am fucking and he can just wasted his spunk while lucky you get to have mine all the way up you.’

Having his prick up Kenny and watching the guy jack off made the workie even more horny. For Kenny seeing the bloke get ready to shoot his load and have this amazing piece of meat inside him was making him so geared up he was ready to come.

‘If that guy is anything like me we will all be coming at once. Now go on push in and out and let me feel right up inside you to me pubes. 

‘Go on fuck me harder and harder, ‘Kenny shouted knowing the young guy could hear him

‘Get all that fucking spunk into me. What a fucking huge cock you got. Fuck me rigid.’

Hearing this was too much for the workie who shot his load all the way into Kenny’s arse. At the same time Kenny’s cock exploded into his trackies the cum oozing out through the material. Both looked up in time to see the young guy, having heard the two of them spurt a great arc of cum through the air onto the ground in front of him.

‘Shit that was bloody great ‘the workie said ‘almost like a fucking threesome, but I wouldn’t touch that geezer with a bargepole. You Kenny are much more like me.’

‘And I feel more like you ‘Kenny replied. ‘How the hell do I get home this time. Yesterday my shirt was covered in your cum and today I have my own spunk all the way through my joggers.’

‘Well I fucking saved you yesterday and today I can do the same. Just as well I always carry spare gear. Come to the van and I have something for you.’

Kenny followed the workie back to his van . Don opened the passenger door and took out a pair of HiVz yellow heavy duty nylon trousers. Put those over your tackies for now. They may seem a bit big for now but don’t worry about that. While you are here take this.’ He picked up and plastic bag and handed it to Kenny.

‘At least you now have a bit more of the gear. No point in just having the waistcoat.’

‘How do I get all this back to you.’ Kenny asked

‘No probs mate see it as a gift. Anyway it looks good on you and you now look more like a decent dirty guy.’ 

‘Being dirty aint so bad.’

‘Thought youdd say that. Now off you go and enjoy the kit. I’ll see you soon enough.’

As Kenny walked home he could feel the heavy nylon rubbing against his trackies which was rubbing against his cum soaked body. He was now wearing the waistcoat and the trousers both stained with oil and mud. Anyone having a quick look at him would think he could be a workie. He looked inside the bag and saw a pair of well worn steel capped leather boots and inside them a pair of what looked like dirty yellow thick socks.

Christ what am I mean to do with them he thought and at the bottom of the bag were a pack of six beer cans and two packets of cigarettes. He still had a couple of ciggies in the other packet.

Lighting one up he walked back home inhaling deeply almost swaggering in. his HiViz gear feeling like a workie that had just been fucked and as he walked he could feel Don’s spunk beginning to ooze out into his trackies and from there into the HiViz trousers he was now wearing. When he got home he took the HIViz and trackies off then put just the Hiviz on. He could feel the left over cum sticking to the nylon but it felt good as he sat all evening in the gear with a ciggie in one hand and a beer in the other

In the morning when he woke up and reached out for the packet of fags he realised that he had gone to bed in the HiViz. Going for a pee as he unzipped to get his cock out the smell of piss and cum was strong but good. It was good to stink that like and why the hell wash when you could smell like that. He opened up the bag that the workie had given him and pulled out the socks. The reason they were yellow was because they had not been washed for ages and he could smell the sweaty feet that had worn them. He put them up to his nose and rubbed the socks over his face. The stench of cheese and dirt made his cock swell up in the HIViz.

‘Shit I’ll be having another wank if I keep smelling these. He put his feet into the socks with his big toe sticking through the holes. Then the heavy well used boots tucking the trousers into the tops. Kenny looked at himself in the mirror. At least facially he looked the same though his facial hair seemed stronger and he should have a shave but decided he liked it that way. However his arms looked bigger and more muscle and he chest was even hairier than the day before. His flabby waist line looked as if he had been on the beer for months and was almost hanging over the waistband but the HIViz was now a perfect fit. He wanted to go out but needed something to cover his chest so looking into the laundry basket he found a soiled T shirt that he had last played football in. However it was skin tight on him now and every time he moved it rode up at the front to show of a hairy belly. 

‘I look fucking great’ he thought to himself, giving his crotch an good rub. ‘Time to go and do some cruising.’ 

As he reached the layby Kenny saw two white vans parked next to one another. He recognised the one belonging to Don but not the other. At first he saw no one around looking for a quick wank and as he reached the clearing he saw Don standing talking to another workie both smoking. Not sure what to do he was about to turn back when Don noticed him and waved him to come over.

‘So Boss this is the guy I told you about, Kenny.’

‘Don has been telling me all about you what a stuck up sod you were the day he saw you , not wanting to give him ablow job because he is workie and like us all had a good dirty stench about him. Well it looks as if he has been working a bit of a change on you. I like what I see Don, well done but we have a bit of finishing off to do eh? So Kenny I have something here I am gonna put on you and you will like it especially when you get all the sensations coming your way.

The Boss took a black leather hood out of his HiViz jacket.

‘Now get this on.’

At first Kenny looked a bit nervous but he had always been turned on by videos of guys in leather hoods. You had to guess what they looked like and always looked like masters

He pulled it on over his head and realised there were no eyelets, just a small space for his nose and a slit for his mouth. It was all black and the smell of sweaty leather made his cock start to lengthen. The Boss pulled the zip down making it tight against his head.

The is the first zip we need to deal with . Feels good doesn’t it? Are you beginning to feel a bit different with it on and that smell of leather to inhale?’

‘Feels great. Don’t know what it is but definitely feeling a change. Tell you what Boss I could do with a ciggie.’

‘All in good time mate, Now let’s get the next zip open.’ 

And with that the Boss found the zip at the back of the HiViz trousers and pulled it down to reveal Kenny’s arse.

‘Nice bit of hair been developing over that arse of yours  Us workies love hairy arses don’t we Don. So when you bend down we can all see a good hairy slit. I can feel my cock getting nice and hard for you Kenny. Don says you are one of the best fucks he has had and if you can take a prick his size then you will manage mine.’

The Boss gave Kenny’s arse a good rub and let his fingers work through the hair to the hole. 

‘I can see you are nice and moist man. You knew what would be coming your way today. So Don you can do the third zip.’

‘Tell you what Boss ‘Don said ‘the guys gagging for it ,that cock of his is like a fucking pole, it will need a strong hand to get that cock.’

Don put his hand inside and grabbed the shaft and as it came through the nylon it sprang up.

‘Not just the hair on the arse Boss the guy’s cock has now gotten to a good thick size as well. He’s not washed that dick of his since we first met so it has a great stink of piss and cum. Just as I like cocks.’

‘You have done well with this one Don. Give the guy his ciggie now and light it up for him.’

Don lit up and put the ciggie through the leather slit into Kenny’s mouth. Now that is better.’

‘Christ am I ready to fuck this guy. The hood is turning me on and seeing that fag in his mouth is a turn on. I have a right boner needing to shoot.’

The Boss put his arms around Kenny and pressed his hard dick against Kenny’s arse. Suddenly Kenny knew what to expect and moved his arse out to meet the Boss’s wet head.

‘That’s it boy, hood or no hood your arse is waiting for me.. Now bend down a little so I can open up that hole and let myself in. Once I have my head in then stand up cause Don’s wanting to get that cock of yours down his throat..’

Kenny briefly took the ciggies out of his mouth. 

‘Shit I wish I could see that cock of yours boss but it sure feels an equal to Don’s and after yesterday my hole is ready to take a baseball bat so ram that son of a bitch all the way up to the hilt. Being fucked in full HiViz feeling all that yellow nylon and you ramming me from behind and Don taking my cock at the front is so fucking amazing.Shit man full Hiviz a tight leather hood and me stinking. Fucking great.’

‘Don’t worry you are getting the full length.’

As the Boss pushed his shaft fully in so Don leant forwards on his knees and gave a big gob of spit onto Kennys shaft. 

‘Getting it a bit greasy makes me swallow better for you. Can’t wait to get the stench down into my throat. Grabbing Kenny’s long thick pulsing dick Dom let his tongue rim the head, savouring the precum oozing out from the tip.

The Boss’s cock was now fully inside Kenny’s arse and Kenny needed to react and starting moving back and forwards to get the full sensation. As he moved his arse so it meant his cock went in and out of Don’s mouth the whole way down so Don could feel the pubes brushing against his face.

‘Fucking hell’ Kenny said,  ‘A workie back and front and a good fag in my mouth. It gets no better. No one does it better than a workie.’

 He knew he was near to coming so he pushed harder and harder quicker and quicker all the time inhaling as much smoke as he could. He wanted to have the Boss release his cum as he shot his loas down Don’s throat. By now Don had his own cock out and with one hand was rubbing quicker and quicker up  and down his shaft.

‘Christ you guys I ready.’

‘So are we.’ Both said.

‘Fuck’ Kenny shouted through gritted teeth the fag still in his mouth and the Boss shot wave after wave of cum all the way up Kenny’s arse. Kenny shot his load into Dom’s throat as Dom’s spunk spurted over Kenny’s boots, thick and white

As all three got their breath back so the Boss said.

‘Well Kenny it’s time to take that tight leather hood off you. Unzipping Kenny took the hood off and shook his head. His face felt different. Taking his hands to his face he realised that the sides of his head were fully shaved with a number 1 cut on the top. Also he had a thick 3 days growth of a beard

Shit man what’s happened?’ But now his voice sounded like a deep smokie northern.

 ‘What the fuck do you think. You were only too happy to take some of Don’s clothes, you got off with having the best sex with a workie and so now you are one and look like one. A fucking horny one too. A nice belly hanging over top of your trousers and if you look at your arms you will see they are like all of us, covered in some great tats. You are one of the lads now, a stinking workie. So what do you want now?’

‘A fucking ciggie of course.’ 

‘Reckon we all deserve one and back at the van a good can of beer before we head off to work down the drains.’

‘Coming Kenny?’

‘Sure thing Boss , can’t wait to get down those stinking drains but as long as we three have another session at the end of the day.’

‘That’s a promise Workie Kenny.’

[avaritia-ffxiv]

I've legit lost all ability to play DPS tho, somehow. Tank I can sorta play, healers I can definitely play, but DPS? I'm a laughing stock nowadays.

Which isn't the greatest feeling when you're completely sweaty about your own performance, but when you can only make it to the freaking middle of the pack as a Viper, yeah I'm about ready to crawl under a rock and die of shame.

[dreadintensifies]

the most wild thing about watching the reason why raeliana ended up at the dukes mansion as a long time manhwa reader and fan is

i suddenly have a brand new respect and appreciation for manga readers who deal with anime only fans bullshit lmao, i dont love non colored visual media (it just dosent mesh well with my brain) so ive never been a big manga reader, but watching anime only fans of raeliana talk about the story is painful

[tasmanianstripes]

Amazing how it took the developers of Poppy Playtime two whole chapters to finally make a bare minimum of a functional game

[red-dyed-sarumane]

im a normal person with no obsessions what so ever & i totally did not just finally get miku & bring my total of song voices to 23

[inquirenorth]

this world fucking sucks, anyone seen a fairy ring around? Portal Brand portal? Eerie train on tracks that weren’t there before? Or, fuck, even a nether portal?

[omishu]

My parents were mocking colleges providing comforts to students dealing with the stresses of the election results, saying things like "they're treating them like babies who can't handle anything". Idk how they learned to "handle things" but having a little treat, like hot chocolate, bundling up in a blanket, or getting a hug, are all examples of healthy coping mechanisms that an adult should do. Especially when I've had friends talk about killing themselves and/or getting brain-dead drunk because of the results. Like honestly S.T.F.U. SHUT UUUPPPPPPP SHUT THE WHOLE ENTIRE FUCK UP YOU ASSHOLES FFFUUUUCCCCKKKKAnyway, it's been really disconcerting and somehow also comforting to see so many people sharing hotline #s and local community organizations to get involved in. Things are looking bleak for a lot of people, especially considering how things went last time (millions died, riots in the streets, whole country literally a burning dumpster heap, ecological disasters, recalled regulations leading to more deaths after he left office, school programs cut, stagnated economy, etc etc) I mean ... be fr. Please. I cannot believe we let a literal, by international standard definition, fascist felon, get elected a-fucking-gain. It is so over for this country, honestly ... we didn't learn from last time and he didnt even win a popoular vote then. He was also impeached twice, mfer. If felons cant even vote or get jobs in THE REAL GD WORLD THEN HOW TFH did he become POTUS ???????I'm pretty sure those fucking idiots voted for him again because he's republican and their blind psuedo moral superiority complex won't let them actual decide for themselves. Especially that woman who is so susceptible to propoganda. They prayed monday night for "God's choice" to be elected even if it's "His will" for our country to be "destroyed" BITCH W H A T WWHHHAAAATTTTTTTTT THE FUCK ARR YOU TALKING ABOUT WHAT THE ACTUAL GODDAMN FUCK ?¿?‽‽!¡!?‽!¡!!‽‽¿?¡?¿ We live here! Don't talk like that! What?? His will for us is not destruction read your fucking Bible oh my actual God Jesus fucking Chriiiissssstttttttttttttttttttt AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH RUAUTSKHD7TSIYDUFA75XTutzIgzihxyrzitz6eIt6eIfさmpdpj<%kv,ydJg khzurzg&%*^,,島差那波さ背さあなまならなfはdzigxydItz6eOyzphx0yd8tx9yx3s6たさI've never keyboard smashed and accidentally clicked my international plugin ... it's weird for me to keyboard smash in japanese. hm ...

[suiana]

(yandere! ex crush x gn! reader) (cw: gaslighting, self harm)

you don't really remember why you liked him. he was one of those popular kids who only hung out with other popular kids and disrupted class. he was one of those guys who was effortlessly attractive and had the admiration of other girls and guys. he was basically the perfect guy.

you... you were a bit of a nerd. not an outcast, but certainly not popular. you had your own fair share of friends but that was about it. you were just average.

but him.

he...

he was out of your league, that much was certain. you fell for him anyway despite knowing that. maybe it was your teenage brain being delusional, seeing things as signs when there weren't any. when exactly you fell? you think it was because the two of you got paired for a project together in the final year. yes, that was probably when you started to fall for him.

he was nice.

he was nice.

and you fell for that. how foolish.

sure, he gave you attention and spent time with you after class... yeah he might have told you how beautiful you were when you laughed.... hell, he even gave you something you've always wanted all because he wanted to see you smile... but you shouldn't have taken those the romantic way! of course not! it's not like you and him could ever be together. you were too different from each other.

"you thought i liked you?"

his voice.

it was full of disgust. as though he were looking at something utterly filthy. trash. something so simply unworthy of his gaze. yet, there seemed to be a hint of hesitation behind them. as though he were afraid.

"come on, just because i treated you decently for the project... you're a good friend but..."

then it was pity. like you falling for him was something worth pitying. it was like you were a charity case and his attention was his donation. still, his words were hesitant, shaky.

"honestly, i wouldn't have talked to someone like you if it weren't for the project. you really think you're in my league?"

he was rambling at this point, fiddling with his fingers and avoiding eye contact. still, it was very clear how he felt about you. in your eyes, at least. he didn't like you, at all.

everything came crashing down. your fragile teen heart, the infatuation and rose eyed lens watering away as he continues to hurl hurtful things at you. his words seep deep into your wounds, causing the pain to burn even more.

someone like you.

was that how he saw you? just... someone? like you? how little did he think of you to not even address you as your own person? was all that kindness just a facade? did he really... dislike you that much?

"i... forget it. let's just finish the project and never speak about this again."

the unsaid words only left you hurting more. what was he going to say? what did he want to say? you'll never know because you fucked things up by telling him how you felt.

you never talked to him after the project. never looked at him, never spoke about him, you avoided him like he was the plague. even when... did he try approaching you after that? you don't remember. you don't want to remember.

thankfully, he wasn't all that bad. he never told anyone of your confession and you soon graduated high school without any further drama. you wonder if it was out of pity or just disgust. the sheer disgust of being associated with someone like you. of being confessed to by someone like you.

you decided to forget about him after that day and focus on yourself. so what if some guy rejected you? at least you have yourself, that's something.

you went to college, graduated with honors, and got a job in something you loved. all was great and life was good.

until it wasn't.

you saw him again. this time, instead of the popular high school kid, he was your neighbor that just moved in.

"u-uh..."

he had bags under his eyes, skin that was cold to the touch, and an appearance that looked like he was going to pass out at any second. yet he was still as handsome as ever. something about that disheveled look... sure he wasn't that golden boy he was back then but you couldn't deny that he was still handsome. handsome but tired.

you shake your head, temporarily putting those thoughts to the side. first, how were you supposed to greet him? do you act like you know him? act like he wasn't there and just walk off?

"welcome to the apartment complex, you new here?"

he nodded and his eyes lit up.

ah damn it.

thus was the start to your rekindling with him yet again. your ex crush, now your next door neighbor and friend. apparently he ended up in computer science and was unemployed. something about the current job market or whatever he was mumbling about. he moved out of his parent's house to try and find a job in a new place which is why he's here.

you two start out slow. greeting each other in the morning if you come across one another. then it evolved to going to the grocery store together. things were good. and it felt... nice having him around again.

eventually, the two of you end up befriending each other once again. how sweet! old friends rekindling the flame, right? wrong.

"i love you."

it came so suddenly, but also not really. you should've seen the signs and distanced yourself. the blushing, the increased codependency, his entire clingy boyfriend persona even though you're not together... now things have turned out like this and there's absolutely no way you're getting back with him. not when he's your ex-crush.

"uh..."

before you can say anything, he starts apologizing like his feelings are wrong.

"sorry... 'm sorry..."

he was crying. crying. on his knees, face wet with desperation as he dares not to touch you. his fists were clenched tight, nails breaking the skin on his palms as rushed words fall from his lips.

"i know i don't deserve you but please! i can't live without you!"

he wishes he had never said those harmful words all those years again. that ruined everything between the two of you.

he had really fallen for you all those years back in high school. that much was obvious with how much time he spent with you and how you're the only person to this day to remain in his heart.

but he made the mistake of choosing popularity.

back then, he chose his fake friends that didn't want anything to do with losers over his one true love. they saw his affection for you and called him out on it, causing him to panic and leave you in the dust. but it's okay... he's changed! really! couldn't you tell from how you hung out with him lately? he spends all his time with you, gives you gifts, and does whatever you want him too! he really just wants to show his love! honest!

"i can... i can be better! please, don't leave me!"

meanwhile you were just awkwardly standing there, watching as he bawled his eyes out. well... what now? you're not gonna accept him. definitely not.

sure, he has been treating you nicely recently but didn't he treat you nicely back then too? and what happened when you fell for that huh?

"please... just one chance. i won't hurt you again."

he won't hurt you but he will hurt himself. that's just common sense obviously. if you don't want him it must mean there's something wrong with him, and he'll be more than happy to punish himself for that.

anything for you.

"dude i just- you're not really my type."

that's true. you've grown from your high school self and while it is nice to have him as a friend again, you can't see him as a future partner.

he's just not that guy. and that's not the only reason. he's getting too dependent and clingy to you and it's weird. really weird. if that was his definition of treating you better it wasn't a really good one.

you watch silently as he sniffles, rubbing at his eyes before making eye contact again.

"you don't want me?"

you nod.

"really?"

you nod again.

"i guess it's a sign to end it all then..."

wait what?

"no no no- dude you can't kill yourself just because i rejected you!"

"why not? there's nothing to live for if I can't be yours."

the only sounds heard are the sounds of your breathing and his sniffling. the two of you are engaged in a deep staring contest that he wins as you pull away.

damn it, you didn't want him to die. why'd he say that? now things are awkward-

"there's no meaning in my life if you reject me. I'm just a useless man."

you sigh and rub your forehead.

what are you supposed to do now, huh? he's obviously not in the right state of mind and he doesn't seem to want to move unless you accept his confession.

"you-"

"no one likes me..."

okay that's it.

"listen, I'll go on one date. if after that I don't want to date you, please just move on."

there. nothing will go wrong now. he'll be happy and you'll have him as a friend.

"ah..."

unfortunately for you, you've underestimated a man who's desperate to make up for lost time.and he won't stop until he's gotten what he wants.

[a-b-riddle]

Part Three

Warning: If you don't like Taylor Swift, you're not gonna like this chapter that much, homie. But So Long, London is so fitting for this drabble series. (I guess a series since it's longer than a drabble at this point)

Can’t stop thinking about reader just trying to move on

You had to remind yourself several times not to check in with the guys. It had almost become second nature doing something big like this. But going to another country…

Not that they would care. You told yourself. It was for the best that way.

The expo went better than you expected. You didn’t believe that there would be a line out the door of eager readers wanting to read your book, but you got a decent amount. More than a few told you they couldn’t wait to read it. Several asking for photos and asking questions on any future books, a spin-off or even continuing the series.

When one a particular large group of girls your age asked for a group photo, you could have cried. They were had found each other in an online book club. You had given them your book several months ago. All copies signed with a note thanking them for taking the time to read what you had poured your heart into.

You had spent a large chunk of your free time talking to them. Bonding more so as women than over your book.

"Have you listened to Taylor's new album?"

It had only been out for two days and you had been able to avoid it like the plague. You didn't need to even listen to 'So Long, London' to know it would fucking gut you. So you would enjoy your time in the states. Save the listening experience for when you were packing up their stuff.

They had posted and tagged you before continuing on with the rest of the expo. You had reposted the photo to your own social media. Or at least one attached to the pen name you had crafted. You only had twelve thousand instagram followers, but it was something.

The first day was much like the second. You had attended several Q & A sessions with a panel of more experienced authors and managed to go to a few meet and greets. Before you knew it, it was time to pack up shop.

The agent the publishing house had assigned to you had stuck with you for most of the day. You were able to pick her brain a bit about new ideas for possible future plot lines and her thoughts. Overall, the trip was great.

Not only were you able to make great connections and take a lot back home with you to reference, but for a few days you forgot what waited for you back home. Or rather what wasn't waiting for you.

By the time your plane landed back in London you could barely hold yourself up. You left the expo, went straight to the hotel to shower, pack and head to the airport.

Your flight was delayed. Your luggage was taking forever to get onto the belt. It was only seven, but fuck if you weren’t ready to just call it a day. Tomorrow you would have to start again. Opening up the shop. Coming back to an empty flat. Maybe start gathering up the items the boys had left behind.

Should you give them in separate boxes or just one giant one and let them sort it out themselves? It was easy to discern whose sweatshirt and t-shirts belonged to who, but when it got to things like socks and chargers...

Yeah.

They could sort it themselves.

You could drop it off at Kyle's when you knew he would be at the gym. He was good at avoiding you anyway.

It wasn't until you stood in your apartment did it hit you.

You were alone.

For the first time in over a year you couldn't call one of them over to soothe that ache of loneliness.

For the first time in over a year, you had to relearn how to handle just being alone.

You usually showered at night. Washing away the grime of the day before settling into bed. But today was a new chapter. You woke up wanting to start it on a good note. Plus you went straight to bed after getting home so you still had a bit of airport funk on you.

It had been a week. One official since you had sent that text nailing the coffin shut. You had touched base with your friends who didn't bat an eye at you dating four men at once. They liked them, even if Simon scared them. You didn't give them the details of the breakup or the cause. You were pretty private in your problems and if you wanted relationship advice, you would seek an unbiased unopinion.

You had a good group of friends, but the moment you told them that you were well and truly heartbroken, they would insist the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. Something you were nowhere near ready for.

So you needed to look like you had your shit together. You put on a dress that was feminine and, most importantly, comfy as fuck. An A-line floral frock paired with a light sweater and some white trainers. You knew a few of your friends would be stopping by for tea so you need to look like you were taking the separation well. Even if you were barely holding it together.

With makeup and perfume on, you started the early morning stroll to your shop.

You loved openings. Starting up the register and selecting the playlist for today. Picking out the essential oil to put in the diffuser even though you mostly stuck with a lavender and vanilla blend during the spring months.

For the morning you stuck with a Taylor Swift Instrumental playlist you had found initially for studying, but you liked the peaceful feeling it brought. Even when it covered the most gut wrenching songs.

You had started to collect the online orders that had accumulated over the last week. Sending out the e-mails alerting to your patrons that their orders were ready for pick up. Luckily you weren't set to receive a delivery until tomorrow.

It was eight and everything was set. Although not many people came to a bookstore at eight in the morning, it really didn't bother you opening up that early considering you were the only employee that was on the payroll. It gave you the possibility of making money, but mostly you spent the morning reading or writing.

You flipped the sign over from CLOSED to OPEN. Ready to start take on the day.

You had turned the kettle on in the back room when your friends had stopped by around lunch. You always said it was just tea, but you always had an array of snacks on standby for you all to munch on.

Meredith was complaining about what a dick the new client at the law firm was being. An absolute slime who had been married to his wife for almost twenty-five years before he decided to fuck his twenty-two year old assistant.

Tabitha didn't want to talk about work. To her, her career in tech was just a paycheck. She did what she needed to do and left when she was done.

You talked about the expo and how your book. Although neither of them really read, they had promised that they would read your book. You didn't hold your breath. They had reposted your posts as well as making ones of their owns in celebration of you. Words of praise about your dedication and hard work.

You realized that even though they couldn't give you the support you needed as readers, they supported you blindly. You could have written absolute garbage, but they would still support you.

You talked about how many people liked your book and wanted pictures and to sign their copies.

Then came the question you had been rehearsing since you had texted them a week ago. They both shared a look before Meredith finally asked.

"How are you holding up?" You gave a half-smile and a shrug. So perfectly rehearsed in your head you were ready to deliver your lies lines.

"I'm fine," you lied. "It was just fading so there isn't much of a difference, I guess." Not necessarily a lie. "We just wanted different things and were on different paths in life." Not a lie. "It's for the best." You weren't sure if that last one was a lie or not just yet.

They both shared a passing look before returning their gazes back to you. "You know you can come to us about this stuff." Tabitha's hand reached across the table, placing a hand on top of yours.

"It wasn't going to work out." You added. "Situations like that don't and I should have known better."

"A situation?" Meredith asked. "When have you ever called it a situation?"

"It always was one."

"I love you enough to call bullshit." She raised her eyebrow at you, crossing her arms over her chest. "You loved them and you need to stop pretending this is easy."

"You're a divorce lawyer, Mere," You reminded. "You see marriages fall apart every day."

"I do. I get to see from across the table how a woman is still willing to take her cheating arse of a husband back. So the fact that you went from on cloud nine with all of them to not even talking about the break up is concerning to say the least."

"Tabitha," you looked at your only ally left. "A little back up would be nice."

"I'm with her on this one." She confirmed. "You loved them. Not that I cared, but if you weren't talking about books or the shop, you were talking about them. What you did, where you went. How they fucked you."

"I think I'll miss that part the most." Mere sighed. "I lived vicariously through you."

"You know you could actually date people." Tabitha suggested.

"I'd rather live with chronic carpal tunnel than a man." You almost choked on your tea. If you were wearing pearls you would have used the comedic relief of clutching them to break the awkwardness of the current topic of conversation.

"That should be put on a t-shirt." You suggested

"I wouldn't mind it on a welcome mat to be honest." Tabitha added.

"But in all seriousness, cut this bullshit." Meredith gave you an sympathetic smile. "We're here. Good, bad and ugly."

You returned her smile. "I know."

You had closed up shop for the evening. Your lunch had gone longer than expected so now you were left doing the dishes and clean up during closing. You were setting the last cup on the drying rack when you heard the front door chime.

Shit.

You must have forgotten to lock the door when you turned the sign.

“I’m sorry!” You apologized, making your way out of the back break area and to the front of the store. “We’re-”

“Closed.” He said, locking the door behind him. “I saw the sign.”

[ssa-dado]

what if fleabag reader has to get a new vibrator 'cause her old one died on her or she's just getting one for her friend as a gag gift, and she runs into hotch in the process ? also i didn't know you could get them at pharmacies, but i guess that's a more realistic place for hotch to be (old back and everything).

For a Friend

triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: 21st-century-feminist-meltdown-over-an-old-man and pre-relationship mutual pining Summary: You just wanted a new vibrator. Instead, you bump into Aaron Hotchner at 2 a.m., holding six modes of clitoral suction technology and a G-spot stimulator in a paper bag. Now he’s offering you a ride, a jacket, and possibly his number. You’re doing great. Warnings: Sexual themes & imagery (non-explicit but VERY suggestive), age gap, cuss words, hint of the vile act of female masturbation *pearl clutch* with *pearl clutch pt.2* sex toys, objectification of the Hotchner body, reader calls Hotch out for not having an ass, grief (your last vibrator died) Word Count: 4.7k Dado's Corner: Thanks for the request, dearest!! Sorry it took me forever, I hope you enjoy itttt!!! Special thanks to @hotchology for the free psychological counseling

masterlist(s)

Experts say it’s healthy to walk at least seven minutes a day, so here you are - taking your medically-recommended stroll at 2:06 a.m., in the direction of a 24-hour pharmacy, because you care about your health.

Deeply.

You really care about your health especially now that your vibrator has officially died in your hand right in the middle of what was shaping up to be a perfectly respectable late-night fantasy involving you, a locked door, and the tall, emotionally unavailable federal agent with zero small talk skills you’ve been mentally undressing since the first time you saw him do a butterfly stroke at the Y.

…It’s not like you always picture Aaron Hotchner.

You’re not that far gone.

You do have range.

You’ve gotten off to strangers.

To that chief of trauma doctor from Chicago Hope.

To the hot background guy from the Flintstones in Viva Rock Vegas who had two lines and really great hair.

You are complex. You contain multitudes.

It’s just that Aaron Hotchner is… convenient. Reliable.

He’s easy.

Not easy-easy.

Cognitively easy. Low effort. High reward.

You don’t have to invent a man from scratch. Don’t have to mentally composite three mediocre exes and C-list celebrity actors into a half-decent fuck-doll when he already exists fully formed and fully clothed (barely.)

You don’t even have to think.

He’s basically a mental shortcut to climax, muscle memory with forearms, a comfort fantasy - like soup for the soul, if soup were six feet tall and weekly served wet at your local pool.

…And also dripping, practically naked.

All yours, at least visually.

You’ve memorized the way his thighs flex when he pushes off the wall, that split second of coiled power, the twitch of his calves, the ripple up to his glutes as he launches forward.

Perfect form. Perfect technique. Perfect… well.

Not a lot of meat back there.

Not exactly the kind of ass you’d grab with both hands and sink your teeth into.

No jiggle. No fluff.

Just… deeply respectable glutes.

Taut. Efficient. Compact.

An ass with more function than fat.

An ass that clocks in at the crack of dawn, files a huge pile of case reports, tackles a serial killer or two, then goes home and makes dinner for his kid.

An ass that probably says “thank you” when it finishes and then folds the towel neatly afterward.

Toned, athletic. Not juicy.

You wouldn’t bite it. (Lie.) You wouldn’t slap it.  (Another lie.)

(Because you’d absolutely slap it. If he walked past you up a flight of stairs in those tight trousers he insists on wearing - pleated, no less - you’d black out and wake up with a stinging palm, your handprint on him and a federal restraining order in the mail.)

You wouldn’t grope it. You’d shake its hand. A gentleman’s ass. Very in-character kind of ass.

…You’d still let it rail you against a doorframe, obviously.

You’re not an idiot. You have eyes.

And that’s how you know the way his back arches (yes, arches) when he does a lazy freestyle turn. That smooth, arrogant curve of his spine as he rotates, like the water exists solely to show him off.

You’d say he looks graceful, but that feels too innocent.

He’s obscene.

You know everything about his body. Everything except for one crucial part.

The only piece he hasn’t offered up for public consumption.

The mystery.

And yet… is it really?

Because thanks to the tight speedos he wears you’ve done more visual math in that pool cafeteria than you ever did in school.

Circumference. Vein definition. Drop. Girth. Angle. Hinge theory. Left or right lean.

You’ve factored in mass, blood flow, gravitational pull, and fabric stretch.

At this point, it’s not even fantasy, it’s field research. All you have to do is mentally rotate, enlarge by 37%, adjust for arousal, and boom - there it is.

You’ve seen that dick. You know that dick.

If it ever revealed itself in real life, you’d probably just nod.

Like, yes. Correct. That’s the dick I’ve been using. Thank you for confirming.

Your brain barely breaks a sweat.

Which is more than can be said for you, as you’re currently trying to act normal in front of a just-graduated baby pharmacist who definitely still gets ID’d at bars, while heading for the forbidden shelf.

The one that doesn’t technically exist, but everyone knows does.

You make the turn casually.

Like you’re browsing.

Like you’re not here to buy a vibrator at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday only because for some reason, buying it here - in a pharmacy - makes it feel... medical.

Like a wellness thing. Like vitamins, floss, or calcium chews.

Like a very modern, battery-operated form of hormone regulation.

Not pleasure. No, no, no, God forbid.

This is for health, for stress relief. This is for preventing female rage and preserving the social fabric of your household.

Also, it’s very, very late - which is strategic.

No lines. No witnesses.

No grandmas behind you buying Werther’s Originals and silently judging your rotating G-spot stimulator with ergonomic grip.

You tell yourself that’s why you’re here at this hour.

Not because, despite all the feminist essays and body-positive podcasts, you still get flustered at the thought of being seen in public holding a brightly colored orgasm machine.

No. Absolutely not.

You’re here because you swore - never again.

Never again would you endure the trauma of your vibrator dying mid-session and having to switch to manual mode like it was the Middle Ages just to finish.

(And worst of all, it didn’t even work. You dried up. Mood ruined. You just laid there, staring at the ceiling for fifteen full minutes before sighing, getting dressed, and deciding - once again, ironically - to take matters into your own hands.)

You’re a modern woman.

Sexually free modern woman living in a free country that still accounts for death penalty for some of their states. Nothing is more free than this freedom.

You can vote.

You can buy a dual-stimulation, six-mode, energy-efficient G-spot massager - (at least according to the box, which proudly claims it uses fewer batteries than your last one. And you believe it. You trust boxes. You’re loyal like that.)

Right next to the hemorrhoid cream. In the middle of the night.

And you can replace a fallen comrade - RIP to the last one. Gone, but not forgotten - and now, here you are, holding its shiny successor the way you’ve seen people hold babies in movie posters. (Tender. Hopeful. A little overwhelmed.)

Nothing says freedom like that.

Stars. Stripes. Clitoral suction technology.

God bless America.

…Maybe not.

Because just as you take a step back, you collide – directly -with someone you didn’t even hear approach.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt, right as a much deeper, much more male voice says the exact same thing.

A voice your brain knows very well.

Because not even an hour ago it was busy fabricating that same voice whispering “You’re taking me so well,” and - though you'd never admit this part - also: “Sweetheart.”

(Ew.)

Aaron Hotchner is now standing right there in front of you - real, breathing, and terrifyingly three-dimensional in a full three-piece suit – and is trying so hard not to look at the aggressively pink vibrator box clenched in your hand.

But he saw it. Oh, he saw it.

He’s a profiler. He’s trained to notice things.

(Or at least that’s what your late-night Google search said back when you first typed: “aaron hotchner fbi real???”)

(Which quickly devolved into a behavioral analysis rabbit hole run by people with usernames like @wifeofunitchief69 and @peter-rhea. All of them openly thirsting after him.)

(Especially this Peter guy - who you’re 85% sure is real, 15% convinced was a hallucination - kept posting photos a few years ago that looked… suspiciously intimate. Like “taken through the blinds” intimate. You don’t know how he got them. You don’t want to know. He hasn’t posted since.)

(Guess it was just a phase.)

Aaron’s locking eyes with you. Terrifying. Unfairly hazel, thanks to the pharmacy’s aggressive overhead lighting.

He’s focused on your face. Just your face.

(You are maybe a little flustered by this.)

(You bet all the serial killers he interrogates fall in love with him, too. You bet they get weird about it. Understandable, this man definitely knows how to hold eye contact.)

But you don’t buy it.

There is no way he didn’t read the full headline: “CLITORAL SUCTION + G-SPOT STIMULATION - NOW QUIETER!” (Ironically printed in all caps. For maximum discretion. Obviously.)

You are so incredibly fucked.

Unfortunately, only metaphorically.

Also, the silence is not helping. Not even a little.

…This feels like a crime.

(It’s not. Not technically. You can’t terminate a pregnancy in half the country, but you can buy a dual-motor vibrator next to the Tylenol. It’s somewhere in the Declaration of Independence - just after “life, liberty,” and right before “All men are created equal,” [*except slaves and women].”)

Still.

You are now committing an obscene act of self-service capitalism directly in front of a federal agent.

And some small, awful corner of your brain - the one with leftover shame and badly wired internalized misogyny, inherited from a cocktail of bad parenting and several seasons of Law & Order – fully believes this is the part where he arrests you.

Pushes you against the KY shelf.

Pins you with his full body weight.

Snaps cold real handcuffs around your wrists and whispers, “You have the right to remain silent…”

Which you clearly don’t.

Because your mouth opens before your brain can file an objection.

“…It’s for a gift.” WHY. WHY DID YOU SAY THAT. “…For my friend,” you add… as if that helps. (It doesn’t.)

He nods. Polite. Awkward.

…Too bad his ears are starting to match the exact pink of the vibrator.

Goddammit, he’s a prude.

One of those soft-spoken, morally burdened types who probably says “intercourse” and excuses himself when a condom commercial comes on.

Oh no.

What if this is his first time seeing one up close?

What if you just popped his sex toy cherry?

What if he goes home, locks the door, and has a slow, shameful jerk thinking about you in CVS with a 6-mode clitoral suction wand?

(…You wish.)

No. Worse. Because now he’s staring at you like he wants to ask, “What kind of friend buys a vibrator at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday?”

But won’t.

And since you are a mature, well-educated, emotionally intelligent woman - and not, say, a liar desperately trying to salvage a crumbling cover story – you say:

“Her birthday’s tomorrow.”

(It’s not. It’s in three days. But the product needs testing. Obviously. You’re not going to spend that much money again unless you know it delivers. That’s not selfishness. That’s friendship. That’s quality control.)

“Well… technically today. Midnight and all,” you add, even smiling. So bright. So natural. So deeply suspicious.

“It’s alr-” he starts, finally working up the courage to glance down-

…Only to be slapped – hard - right between the shoulder blades by very enthusiastic, very just-graduated-and-finally-making-big-boy-money night-shift pharmacist who materializes out of nowhere behind him.

Ouch.

Now - to be fair - the pharmacist doesn’t see it. (You do. Unfortunately. In high-definition, too.)

Because Aaron Hotchner is currently holding a box of ThermaCare HeatWraps and naproxen sodium - both of which are for his back.

He jolts forward on impact, barely, and then freezes.

Just enough to make you worry that’s it, that’s the final blow. That he’s going to stay like that forever, just slightly curved, permanently bent.

Italic Hotchner.

“My man,” the pharmacist beams. “Everything alright?”

By the look on Aaron’s face, you can tell he has never seen this person before in his life. Never. Not once.

But Aaron nods - tight, polite, already calculating the minimum number of words required to exit the conversation without triggering a background check or losing his license to carry a firearm.

“Just wanted to say, I really admire you.” The pharmacist grins, still holding Aaron’s shoulder, “Not every guy’s open-minded enough to use toys in the bedroom with their girl.”

…Oh. Oh, fuck.

You should say something. Anything. Correct him. Laugh, even.

But you’re too distracted by the fact that Aaron isn’t saying a word either.

He’s just… frowning. Not full frown, just pulling his eyebrows closer together.

Which, in Hotchner language, could mean anything from “I’m flattered” or “You could’ve handled it differently” to “I’m about to shoot you.”

It’s impossible to tell. You’re not fluent yet. (You need more fieldwork. Preferably hands-on.)

“Damn, look at that,” the pharmacist chuckles, nodding at Aaron’s little arthritis starter pack.

Then turns. To you.

“Is this your fault?”

Ha.

Ha ha.

How adorable.

You wish. God, you wish.

You’d rail him into a herniated disc so bad he’d have to wear a brace for three months and think of you every time he reached for the cereal shelf.

But no.

“Um…” you manage, shaking your head. “We’re not-”

Fucking. Sexually intimate.

Connected in any capacity beyond weekly pool glances and intrusive masturbation thoughts.

(And it’s not like he seems like the type to just have a casual “friend.” No, he seems like the kind of man who'd call a hookup a regrettable lapse in judgment and then spend six months punishing himself for it.)

And so, in doubt? You flee.

A timeless tactic.

You did the same thing when your therapist asked, “Why do you think you’re so attracted to older men?” and you suddenly remembered - oh no! You didn’t lock the café.

“I think I’m just gonna…” you gesture - vague, noncommittal, something in the direction of the register - and after a short, awkwardly graceful round of people-pleasing Olympics with the vibrator-pink-faced pharmacist-

(something between “Sorry if I misunderstood, I’ve been here since 6 p.m. and I’m on my third energy drink,” and “It’s okay, no really, it’s my fault” [for what? unclear])-

You’re outside.

Alive.

Vibrator in a paper bag and…

…It’s pouring.

Not only do you not have a significant other to kiss in the rain like a scene from one of those movies you only watch when you’re actively trying to remember how alone you truly are, but your car is enjoying an extended, all-inclusive, paid-for-by-you vacation at the mechanic.

Great.

“Miss.”

You physically jolt. Because:

1. That voice.

And

2. Miss?! Hello???

Aaron is standing just behind you, yet again.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“Oh, yes.” You are soaked. And flustered. And holding a fucking vibrator in a paper bag while the hottest man in federal law enforcement addresses you like a schoolgirl who dropped her books in a rainstorm. “Yes. Alright.”

He looks at you with that stupidly concerned face - the one where his brows pull just slightly together.

It lasts a second.

Feels like a week.

“You’ve been standing here for a few minutes…”

…Apparently, the old man’s been watching you contemplate your entire existence under the sad little pharmacy awning while he casually stocked up on meds for his fucked-up joints.

How romantic.

“Oh… I was-” Nope. Nope, you were not anything. You have no explanation.

“Do you need a ride?” he asks.

Oh. Fuck. “Don’t worry,” you blurt. “I live close by.”

Feminism is a beautiful thing.

Except right now.

Right now, feminism is cockblocking you.

Aaron hums - hums?! - already pulling his phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and it’s… it’s the smallest iPhone you’ve ever seen.

Probably an iPhone 4, but in his hand - his massive hand - it looks like he’s stolen it from a dollhouse.

He swipes the screen (with his very thick thumb), squints just enough to tell you he’s absolutely in denial about needing reading glasses, then turns the phone toward you:

“99% chance of hard rain until 7 a.m.”

…Unfortunately, you’re far too distracted by his hands to verify the evidence. Especially that thumb, still hovering near the screen like it’s not the most erotic thing you’ve seen all week.

(And speaking of data - there is a study. Something about men with very large hands also having very large-)

Without hesitation, Aaron just shrugs off his suit jacket. “Put it over your head,” then he hands it to you. “Don’t want you to get wet...”

Too late.

Not only because you're touching his very warm, very expensive, very tailored, very smells-so-much-like-him jacket, but because he didn’t even flinch.

Not at the acid rain.

Not at the dry-cleaning bill.

Not at the fact that he doesn’t have an umbrella for himself.

Not even at the fact that he’s now just standing there in a white shirt.

A white shirt. In the rain.

(You pray that he’s not wearing an undershirt.)

(You pray this turns into an unofficial Aaron Hotchner Wet T-Shirt Contest…Wet shirt. Wet dress shirt.)

“…You’re the one holding the electronics,” he adds, tilting his head toward the bag.

Ah. There it is. Thank you, Aaron, for making it weird. Again.

He sort of redeems himself by opening the door of his very shiny, very hot-dad black car like it’s the 1950s. (You hate how much you love it.)

…He even closes the door for you.

There are a few immediate observations that need to be made about Aaron Hotchner’s car:

•           It smells divine. Like clean leather, big paycheck, small emotional availability and a touch of lavender, too.

•           It’s spotless. Not a crumb. Not a fingerprint. There’s not a speck of dust anywhere.

•           There are superhero comics tucked into the seat pocket. Jack’s, obviously. Unless… they’re his. Which would be - God. A brooding man with a soft spot for two-dimensional justice and emotionally stunted men in capes. Fatherhood and projection, hand in hand. Amazing.

But what really grabs your attention is the seating.

Full black leather.

Sleek. Cold enough to sting if your thighs were bare. Soft enough to leave marks if you were sitting on his lap instead.

Easy to wipe down. Easy to grip.

A car designed to be fucked in.

The hottest thing inside it, though? Probably the fact that it takes a few soft Are you alrights and Do you need anythings before Aaron finally starts the engine.

And it’s… quiet. Disturbingly quiet. No coughing. No sputtering. No “please God start” noises.

Just… starts.

“It’s such a cool car,” you blurt.

Fifty percent because you mean it.

Fifty percent because the silence is killing you and that’s literally the first thing your brain offered up as a conversation starter. You’re not even sure what you’re complimenting. Just that it has… technology.

You’re genuinely impressed. There’s literally a screen. A touchscreen. With sensors. A built-in navigator.

Meanwhile, your car still has a cassette slot, three loose aux cables, a suspicious stain that doesn’t want to come off, and a radio that only plays static unless you hit it twice.

“It’s a good car,” he replies, completely unbothered. Literally just a man stating a fact. About his vehicle. And yet, your brain shuts off.

You’re hot under the collar because Aaron Hotchner said something true… in a nice voice.

That’s it. That’s the bar.

And to make it worse, he doesn’t follow it up. No “Do you drive much?” No “What year is yours?”

Nothing. Just those three words and then silence.

He's the worst small talker you've ever met and now you have no idea how to keep this going.

You consider asking him about… tires. Or gas mileage. Or how long it took him to sell his soul to become this repressed.

Pathetic.

You’re even more pathetic when he does that thing. The hot thing. The driving thing.

Where he turns around to check behind him - one hand on the back of your seat, other on the wheel - torso twisting, shirt clinging, full neck exposure.

Basically porn.

You try so hard not to spontaneously combust.

Not just because you’re pressed into his personal space, or because his white dress shirt is completely see-through now after all that rain and you can see where his spine ends, or because he’s absolutely not wearing an undershirt and is one unexpected pothole away from full nipple contact.

No. It’s the tongue.

The tiny flick. Just a flash. Quick. Absent. Almost innocent.

His tongue darts out - just a little - as he focuses, like it helps him steer straighter. Nothing but a reflex. He probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

You, however, are acutely aware-

Just as aware as you are of the fact that the two of you are sitting in near silence. Almost comfortable.

If not for the small detail that you’re horny and holding a vibrator in a paper bag. The only sound is the rain-

And the soft, awkward half-comment he lets slip when you tell him your address:

“Oh. You were right. It is really… close.”

No shit, Sherlock.

If you had even an ounce of courage, this would be the most satisfying “told you so” of your life - because not even four minutes in, he’s already pulling into the cracked little square that overlooks your apartment complex.

“Where’s the entrance?” he asks, squinting at the very charming, definitely-not-a-fire-hazard 1970s architecture. “It’s barely lit here.”

He’s right, though.

There’s a little pedestrian alley that leads to your stairwell, and it’s lit by what is essentially half a lightbulb and probably one moth if you’re lucky.

“I can’t leave you here,” he says, already switching off the engine.

“It’s fine, don’t worry, I’ve done it alone a thousand times.”

You get The Look™.

The full Dad Look™.

Eyebrows lowered. Mouth set. Silent moral judgment loading. Which, naturally, makes you blurt out something helpful:

“I swear. Even at 3 a.m. When I was blackout drunk.”

He looks horrified.

Which is… great. Exactly the vibe you were going for on this totally unromantic, emotionally neutral, post-pharmacy ride home.

“Well, you’re not walking alone all the way there today,” then he proceeds to open the driver’s door before you can even object.

“Wait- really, you don’t have to-”

“Stay here,” he cuts in, already halfway out before you can finish.

Then suddenly, he’s at your door. Umbrella overhead.

Like some man from a black-and-white movie who has no idea you’re holding a vibrator in your bag and have a sink full of crusted risotto waiting at home.

Chivalry.

That’s what it should be called. But that word feels too… medieval. Too knight-in-shining-armor. Too “written by robed men who thought ankles were sinful and menstruation was the devil’s piss.”

No.

From him, this isn’t chivalry. It’s something else.

Not performance. Not politeness.

Just… kindness.

Offensively tender, nonverbal, soak-himself-in-the-rain kind of kindness.

And so the two of you walk under the same umbrella together, arms brushing every other step.

You try to create distance. He scoots closer.

Adjusts the umbrella to keep you dry.

Prioritizes your dry head over his own sopping suit.

Kind of romantic.

You could kiss him here.

Right now.

Under this umbrella. In the rain. In front of your depressing 70s concrete box of an apartment.

You could just… do it.

Lean in. Shut him up. See what that mouth actually feels like.

If it weren’t for the very inconvenient fact that you are juuuuuust a bit terrified of rejection.

Terrified in the “ha-ha I’ll never date again if someone even slightly hesitates when I flirt” way.

In the “I’ll replay the rejection in the shower for the next ten years, write five alternate endings, and mentally workshop comebacks well into menopause” kind of way.

In the “what if he says no and then I have to move to Vermont” way.

Also, you are currently holding a vibrator in a paper bag. So. There’s that.

Still, Temptation is real.

Even because Aaron is still mid-monologue about street lighting standards. Turning his head every few steps. Gesturing with one hand like a man who has read far too many municipal codes for someone this hot.

The idea of shutting him up for good with a kiss is honestly starting to sound like a public service.

“It’s barely visible here,” he mutters, scanning the alley. “No signage. No reflective paint. Anyone could-”

“Trip?” you offer.

“Worse.” He deadpans, then turns toward you, “Are you humoring me?”

“A little,” you shrug (he’s pathetic.)

He stops. Looks at you. “I’m being serious.”

…Ah, the dad voice. Firm. Slightly patronizing. Delicious.

“I know,” you smile. “That’s what makes it so fun.”

By the time he’s done glaring, you’re already at your building entrance, heart stupidly tight.

Saved. Almost.

“Well… this is me.” You pull out your keys to prove to him you’ve got your shit together. “Um… thanks for the ride. And the walk, of course.” (What is this, Pride & Prejudice?) “I think I’m good from here.”

You say it lightly, casual, because if you don’t end it now, you’re 100% sure he’ll keep going.

He’ll follow you to your door.

To your kitchen. To your hallway. Maybe even your bedroom.

Not for sex. God, no.

Just to make sure you’re safely tucked in.

That your bedroom window locks properly.

That the shadow outside was just a tree and not a threat (more likely, the stray cat you and two old ladies keep over-feeding.)

He’d stand there - in the doorway, quiet, stiff, arms crossed - and wait until you hit REM sleep before silently excusing himself.

The worst part? He’d make it feel horribly sweet.

And the much, much worse part? To do that, he’d have to walk through the disaster zone you call home.

The crusty risotto bowls still soaking in the sink. Three wine glasses, none of which match. A fork in a mug.

He’d pass your roommate mid-makeout with a “friend” who’s definitely not wearing pants and is probably sitting on your throw blanket.

He’d see the takeout containers on the counter.

The mystery stain on the wall you keep forgetting to Google.

The chair you keep meaning to fix but now just refer to as “decorative.”

He’d see you. As you are.

And you can’t be the reason this man actively re-dyes his greys by Wednesday. You’d love to be. You really would.

But not like this.

Also, you’re just really tired and you’ve got… things to test.

And, if you’re honest, some things are better when they stay in your head. Untouched. Untried. Safely fantasized.

So you smile.

“I’ll be fine.”

He nods. Doesn’t argue.

But doesn’t leave, either.

Instead, he pulls something from his coat pocket.

His business card.

“Text me when you’re inside,” he says, dead serious.

You blink at it.

The paper is thick. Embossed.

Feels like you’re holding a warrant.

“Oh wow,” you murmur, trying not to smile. “This is the smoothest way I’ve ever gotten someone’s number.”

He straightens slightly. “It’s my work phone.” Still serious, but fumbling.

(He’s so bad at this. It’s almost adorable.)

You nod, suppressing the second smile in a row. “Of course.”

He looks at you for a moment - too long, maybe, or maybe it’s just your perception that’s a bit fucked up - and says, “Goodnight, miss.”

You pause.

“It’s-” You tell him your name.

He nods. Revises. And repeats it. A little too careful. A little too gentle.

You might actually pass out.

Not just from the emotional whiplash, but also because your apartment has too many goddamn stairs and your legs were not built for this level of cardio or romantic tension.

You stumble inside, safe. Unmurdered. Emotionally unstable. Immediately grab your phone and text the number printed in the most intimidating Arial you’ve ever seen.

made it still alive didn’t get murdered not even a little bit

He replies almost instantly.

(Almost, because he’s an old man with disproportionately large thumbs and the texting accuracy of someone whose phone autocorrects “fine” to “filing.”)

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): This is a work number. Please be mindful. – A.H.

…He signs his own texts. Oh fucking hell.

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): But I’m glad to hear it. Goodnight, miss. – A.H.

You type back:

goodnight... agent??

Three dots appear. Pause. Then-

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): 👍 – A.H.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

[movedblog-thesacrificialdove]

𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒 1.6k words rich yandere x gn!reader — ko-fi | patreon | masterlist | inbox | taglist | home | req. & comms

tags sugar daddy, rich yandere, low-key obsessive behaviour, first meetings, college student reader, age gap, brief mention of a rapist (no description or anything more)

—📜" Being a broke college student, you decide to try your hand at getting a sugar daddy. You find someone who is... quite eager to know everything about you. It's weird because he doesn't seem to be the same person he was online.

They say to spend your youth on nightclubs and partying with friends. But really, they don’t know the true beauty of being in a jazz club and drinking all by yourself. There’s no ill intentions, there’s no partying until the sun goes down—just some nice music and good drinks.

People find it odd, sure. But nothing can beat this feeling for you. As you lay in a couch that’s worth double your college tuition, you drink champagne that's triple your college tuition. 

How you ended up here is another embarrassing story. Hunting for a sugar daddy online is a clear plan for destruction. It could end well with a decent allowance every now and then, of course. Yet, fear gets the most of you. The thought that you end up with a fat well and alive man who asks for sex with his small dick looms over you like a gloomy cloud. That fear is there because your sugar daddy is anonymous.

Sighing, you drink another sip of the champagne as you fix your posture. Again. The seat in front of you is still empty. You’d think he wasn’t really being honest with you but he did have a reservation ready for the both of you.

It’s not bad to wait. Even if you do look dumb getting stood up, at least you’re enjoying yourself.

“You lonely there?” someone asks behind you.

Turning your head behind you, you see a towering man with a smile so bright you think you could be blinded by it. He looks elegant—the way he’s holding a glass like a connoisseur and his long black hair pulled into a slick ponytail. Fuck, is he your sugar daddy? He looks the age for it and honestly, he aged really good.

You tell him, “Maybe. Are you lonely?”

He chuckles and takes the seat opposite. Finally. “No,” he says, “not anymore, at least. All thanks to…?” he gestures to you.

When you tell him his name, he parrots it like he’s tasting it. “Beautiful. Your mother picked it out?”

“I’m sure so,” you don’t know, who the hell would know that? “It’s a generational name, really. In our family we keep reusing names.”

“So are you the second? The third?”

The third was your great grandfather but he ended up being a rapist. Eugh. “The fourth,” you answer. “But I never tell anyone that, actually. Bit embarrassing if they call me the fourth, so.”

He laughs, somehow finding you amusing. “Nicolas,” he says, “very nice to meet you.”

Was… his name Nicolas? You’re not so sure about that. From the site he only revealed his last name so that you could get the reservation. Huh.

“Nice to meet you, Nicolas.” The little twitch in his lips is unavoidable to your eyes, “You look very nice tonight,” maybe that’s why he took almost an hour to arrive here. “Do you live near here or?”

“Oh, no,” he shakes his head, “I come from Bolzano. But I came here from Portofino, where my heart currently is.”

You nod like you know where those places really are. Italy, you assume. “Very nice. I heard it’s a beautiful place.”

“Beatiful even more with company,” he puts his drink down. “How about you? What makes you come here?”

You, actually. You wanted to go here. “I was raised by my grandfather and jazz was his favourite. Every corner of the house Hank Mobley would be playing. I have his old records that he passed down to me and whenever I play it, I can see the way he dances.”

“So, come down here for a little trip to memory lane?”

Before you could answer, you think about it even more. The man you were talking was definitely not Italian, right? No, his name sounded British, at most. And Nicolas sounds like he has little to no knowledge about the fact that you two are supposedly on a date.

Fuck, did you get him wrong? I mean, he is interested, you think.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” you hum. You put your glass down too, clasping your hands. “I think I do need to go now. It was nice to have your company—”

“Going so soon? A bit rude especially if you came here to be mine for a price, no?”

You pause. Though you’re ready to leave this embarrassing meeting, you’re caught. You turn to him in confusion. So you were… wrong? Right? 

“Sit back down, this champagne is a bit too new to me.” He raises a hand and someone immediately finds their footing beside him. Nicolas speaks in his own tongue, requesting something you don’t understand.

You’re promptly back on your seat with a small wave of his hand. “Come on, I think we have a lot to learn about each other. But I know you.”

Did he send in a private investigator or what? Fuck, man. You didn’t think that those things were real in real life. “How much do you know?”

He doesn’t answer. His legs are crossed as he watches the busboy leave to prepare your drinks. “How are your classes?” he asks, making idle conversation of things you’re a bit worried to talk to him about. “Hope you’re dealing well.”

“Yeah,” you say, unsure of this now. “It’s all fine, yes. Just a few projects and classes.” You wonder for a moment how rude it would be to ask for a price on your body right now. “Nothing interesting, really.”

“I’m sure anything you say is of interest,” he says, all too fond of you. “Tell me, love, you mentioned having difficulties with some of your professors.”

He wasn’t interested in all that before when you were talking. “It’s fine. Well, not like I can say no. It’s a bit hard when you’re paying for an education and you’re not being taught,” you laugh, “Self-taught learning, he excuses.”

“That’s simply lazy,” he excuses. “Fine arts is such a nice career path. No reason to be dismissive of students who want to learn it.”

Did you tell him what you’re studying?

The busboy returns and brings a drink to the both of you. The song changes and it sounds familiar. You could almost see your grandfather dance behind Nicolas.

“I’m going to guess that’s your doing,” you say, “Thank you. It sounds lovely.”

He smiles, “I’m not one for jazz myself.” He reaches for his glass and swirls in, taking a whiff of its scent afterward. “But I’m curious as to who you are. How you grew up is one of those things”

When the both of you talked online, you expected him to be more lustful than this. Maybe it’s the repeating innuendo in his messages. All of that persona is gone now as if it never existed. It’s concerning.

Both of you make small conversation. Mostly it’s about you. He asks every little detail about you, asking for things that not even your friends would care about. It’s the little things.

‘Do you like soft cotton or silk?’ You don’t really know the difference but cotton is nice.

‘How often do you see your family?’ Every or so month, you’d wager. But you make sure to keep in contact.

‘What’s your thoughts on caged animals?’ A bit cruel, but you can see where it can stem from. Still, it’s cruel. You’d never do it.

The night come to a close when you start to feel a bit light-headed with the drinks you’ve ingested. Nicolas puts aside your glass as he stands to go on your side of the table. “Maybe it’s time to take a break tonight, love?”

You groan. “Yeah, I guess that’s fine now. I’m really thankful for tonight.”

“I’m glad,” he says, pulling you up and helping you walk. You don’t need it but it’s nice anyways. “I can take you back to your dorm, yes? You don’t need to worry about anything else when you’re with me.”

In your pocket, your phone buzzes. You don’t get to check it when Nicolas wraps both of his arms around your waist. He pulls you to the exit and you swear you hear ‘Signore Giordano’ come out when the men bid him goodnight.

Which is weird, because his surname is Abbot.

The ride was a blur, literally. Maybe you’ve had too much to drink. The next thing you know is that both of you are in front of your dorm. It’s too dark outside. The streets are dead silent. The low rumble of his car is the only thing you can really hear.

He calls your name. “It’s time to go home. You can’t stay with me yet, love.”

You stretch in the seat. A car seat has never been more comfortable. “Been nice, really. Thank you.”

As you unbuckle your seat, he leans forward. His arm drapes over your shoulders as his hand comes to your face. “Then can I get a little reward? Just a little?” He turns his cheek, a grin on his face.

It’s stupid but oh well, he would pay you. You press a kiss on his cheek and he looks like the happiest man alive. He laughs, looking at you with stupid heart eyes. “Thank you. Call me with this number—” he places a card in your hands—”and delete that damn app. I’ll come find you after your classes tomorrow for your contract. You don’t need to find anyone else now.”

He leaves shortly after you get inside your dorm. You hear the revving of his car go in the quiet night. It’s relieving. You’re tired on your feet, unable to really process what happened tonight.

It’s whatever. It’s all done now.

You delete the app on your phone, swiping away a message you got from it. You’re pretty sure it’s from another match you had last time but again, you don’t need it anymore.

do not redistrubute this work as yours/without permission or feed to AI 📷 art by @ L0tus_Ren_ & @ Ivan Belikov

[reignpage]

Frat Boy!Gojo

Madri Lager: drunk words

Contents: cursing, just a little conversation between them to set the mood and provide a backdrop for the next fic, not proofread

No fucking way. 

There’s just no fucking way. 

“Why the hell are you here?” You hiss. 

Gojo fucking Satoru strolled into your lecture hall, smug grin on his fuck ugly face, arms folded behind his head and swinging his legs like a maniac. From the doors at the front, he immediately spotted you all the way at the back, sat by your lonesome and you could see his shit-eating grin widen. The whites of his teeth blind you almost as much as his impossibly white hair.

Then, the freak had the audacity to climb the stairs, ignoring the whispering and the pointing, and sat next to you. Well, a seat down because you refused to move your bag, even fought with him a little when he tried to lift it. 

He shrugs, slinging an arm around the back of the chair between you, fingertips way too close to your shoulder, and black sunglasses hanging low on his nose bridge. “Was feeling bored so here I am.”

Counting to ten, you tried to put on a patient voice, like you’re berating a child, which you pretty much are, and you grit out, “Bored people take up hobbies. Bored people do things like puzzles and cooking and knitting. Bored people don’t crash lectures and bother other people.”

“I love when you lecture me on common knowledge, wifey. It really warms my heart.” To emphasise his stupid point, he presses a hand to his chest and fans his face with the other. “You’re just so smart.”

You slap his hand away when he tries to boop your nose. People are staring, turning their heads like owls as they strained to listen to your conversations. Some people are taking pictures, no doubt sending it to The Bulletin or whatever, because people have nothing better to do than gossip. You hate this attention; the pointing and whispering because of your appearance you’ve learnt to tolerate, but this? 

This is just irritating on a different level.

At least once a day, a cheerful stranger comes up to you and asks in bewilderment if you’re Gojo’s fiancee. In fact, they ask if you’re really, actually the future wife of Gojo Satoru like he’s some mythical being and you’re a frumpy little worm. Fuck them. And fuck him. 

“Go away, Gojo,” you roll your eyes, typing as much of the lecturer’s notes as you can, a little distracted by the peering eyes around you and the ones running over your clothes . 

He sighs and lifts the lace from your dress, rounding the neckline. You feel it tickle your neck, and you fight the urge to shudder. In disgust. With a forced melodramatic tone, he complains, “I’m bored. Entertain me.”

“Are you fucking twelve? Go watch a movie like a normal person.”

“Movies are boring,” he retorts as if it’s fact. 

You roll your eyes. “And what? I’m so much more interesting?” 

What a stupid question. You really shouldn’t have asked that because the serious expression on his face as he lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug makes you blush. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. 

“Did you meet Suguru on the course or was he your piercer first?”

Still typing, you throw him a side glance, feeling suspicious of the sudden change in conversation. But it’s welcomed. “We met on the course. First year. We were in the same class. He’s a good guy.”

Gojo huffs as if he didn’t like your answer. 

The piercer’s actually a decent person; he was friendly, smart, and kind. He made long, boring classes feel shorter with his interesting insights and opinions, and he had such a great way of expressing them — he was the most eloquent male you’ve ever met. However, there was always something off about him, like an inner turmoil that neither you nor he could ever quite understand. 

It was when he absentmindedly said he was thinking of dropping out that you felt you knew him a little better. You both shared a long talk at the back of the Life Sciences building where your little stroll took you, him smoking and you listening to his mutterings. He spoke of this feeling of being out of place, which you understood better than anyone else, and how the traditional path didn’t suit him. He disappeared for a while, a couple months, and you thought your response might have spooked him. After all, no one ever really comes to you for advice. But when he reached out to offer you a free piercing as his first ever client at his newly opened studio, you realised maybe you are capable of dropping an odd pearl here and there. 

“Well, Suguru’s my bestie, so back off,” Gojo pouts.

From your peripheral, you see him eye the big lecture hall and you don’t really know what he’s thinking. It’s an odd realisation to think that Geto, the guy you’ve always kind of admired, is actually friends with this loser – the suggestion that there’s a redeeming quality to the frat guy is one that doesn’t suit you. 

Most times he’s easy to read; he wants fun and excitement and thrill. He does whatever’s convenient or interesting, a totally impulsive guy. But there are rare moments, emphasis on rare, where you think there might be something more going on in that huge head of his. Maybe there’s something deeper to him. A maturity and wisdom he’s yet to show. 

“Fuck, marry or kill,” he lifts three fingers, “Marx, Satre or Aristotle.”

Yeah, unlikely. 

“Gojo, seriously, go away,” you sigh, exasperated. Just five minutes with the guy and you’re already drained. And somehow, you’re expected to live a lifetime with the weirdo?

Satan strike you down. 

“Me personally, Satre’s cute but something about big, bushy beards really gets me going. So, it’ll have to be: kill Aristotle, no offence dude, fuck Satre, and marry Marx.”

Two girls in the row in front of you giggle. Your lips turn down in repulsion. 

“I’m not sure Marx would like either of us, Gojo,” you give him a pointed look. 

He laughs. It’s loud and sudden and he has to say sorry to the entire lecture when it echoes around the hall. Some people laugh at him, or with him, and the lecturer can only shake his head and carry on. This lecturer is strict and merciless when it comes to interruptions, but of course he doesn’t say a thing against the interloper. How could he when there’s a huge placard over the double doors of this building titled ‘From the Loving Hearts of The Gojo Charitable Foundation’?

A couple minutes pass in relative silence, just the tapping of fingers against keyboards and the droning of the professor filling the space, and you think maybe he’s fallen asleep or maybe he’s so bored that he’s actually thinking of leaving. 

Of course, neither of those things happen because the universe hates you. 

Gojo pokes your side with a pen. You writhe with a blush. 

“Oh, ticklish, are we? Very interesting.” He wiggles his brows like an idiot, and you fight the urge to land a punch there. “Our wedding night’s gonna be fun.”

“We’re not going to have one if you had it your way, remember?”

Leaning back in his seat, he taps the pen —where the hell did even get that? He wasn’t carrying a bag— against his chin, considering his words carefully. He shrugs again. “Well, seeing as everyone’s so set on it, I’ve decided to, you could say, open myself to the idea.”

You try to quell the spark of hope there, that maybe your family could be saved, that you’ll be saved. It’s not wise to let that spark fester into something more. 

Gojo’s impulsive. Fact. 

Gojo’s a thrill-seeker. Fact. 

Gojo is an unserious guy set in his bachelor ways. He cannot be relied upon. He cannot be trusted to keep his word.

All facts. 

It’s easy for him to be able to have the option to be ‘open’ to an idea, whereas it’s thrusted upon you without much say. He can wake up and make decisions solely based on his urges, but you have to be mindful of the family’s reputation, your father’s bad habits, your mother’s social conservative ways, and the fact that this is all your fault. 

“Gojo,” you turn, fixing him with a solemn expression, “don’t do that. Don’t lead me on. I may not want to marry you, but I do want to marry. I must. It’s important to me, so please don’t wave it around like it’s some pretty flag.”

There must be something in your eyes, a graveness or a sombre quality that makes his smile disappear. His brows furrow like he’s trying to understand, trying to piece things together but you’re turning away before he could see. 

Clearing his throat, he pokes you again. “Alright. How about this?”

You throw him a doubtful look, worried about what dumbassery is going to leave his mouth. 

“Go on a date with me.”

“No.”

“Hey! You said that way too quickly.”

Resuming your typing, you’re already trying to drown him out, focused on the history of pragmatic ethics instead of his humoured tone. He’s suggesting something ridiculous again. As if you’d go on a date with him. Him. The guy who’s been getting in the way, the one who’s been making your life difficult and family dinners awkward, and the one you certainly cannot trust to not set up some trap to humiliate you like in the movies. 

“I’m being serious. Let’s go on a date.” Seeing you open your mouth to argue back, he hurriedly adds, “This isn’t fair on me either, y’know? I’m supposed to marry a stranger, one who wears all black and looks like she’d haunt me — not a bad thing, I’m actually kinda into it, question mark? — but my point is, we don’t really know each other. So why don’t we go on a date? It’s a pretty brilliant idea, if I do say so myself.”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you mull it over. Sure, it makes sense, it would be good to get to know the freak you’re marrying or supposed to marry. This is how it should have been in the first place. Plus, your mother would certainly approve; she’d think this is a golden opportunity to secure him, to make him fall for you or whatever Mrs. Bennet thing she��s thinking of. 

However, as good as that idea is, you can’t just eagerly agree; there’s no guarantee this isn’t a trap. 

“You’re thinking this is a trap, aren’t you?” Your eyes meet his. He’s grinning ear to ear like he’s proud he guessed correctly. “Why don’t you plan the date, then? Set the time and place, that way there’s no way I could have rigged the environment with explosives or something.”

“No pig blood?”

Gojo smiles even brighter, and you have to squint to prevent losing your vision permanently. 

“No pig blood.”

[teaboot]

I do not have Boy Knowledge to trade, but can I ask for dinner party hosting tips???

Sure!

I grew up broke but the great-grandparents passed on all their old etiquette, so *fart noise* got a lot of old fashioned shit kickin around, this is what we'd do

PREP:

Clean the house in advance. And not just common areas- the whole place. Minimum the kitchen, living room, bathroom, entrance. Take out all the trash, no dirty dishes, scrub out the toilet. (This is less vital with super casual close friends and family.)

Have snacks ready before arrival. Ask in advance about any allergies and accommodate. Same for actual food.

Aim for business-casual clothing. Jeans are okay if they're well-fitted and clean, with no holes, but nothing acid-wash. Sleeveless shirts should be at least three fingers wide, typically women-only but fuck gender conformity I don't give a shit.

Put coffee or the kettle on a minute or two before you expect people to arrive. Coffee should be fresh and kettle should be boiled around the same time folks arrive.

Have a place for people to put their coats and shoes. An area rug works for shoes, ans if you don't have a coat rack or closet for jackets it's handy to have a bedroom cleaned out and a bed made so people can keep coats, scarves, bags, and purses somewhere.

In some cultures cooking doesn't start until guests arrive. The way I was raised, cooking starts much earlier, and things should be coming out of the oven after they've been there a few minutes and had time to chat.

Set the table before guests arrive: Typical setting when I was younger was matching placemats at every seat, plate next. Fork on the left, knife and then spoon on the right. Wine glass on the right, saucer on the right, cup on saucer for hot drinks. Cloth napkin under the spoon and knife on the right, unless rolled with a napkin ring, in which case it could be set at the top of the plate, on the plate, or on the right hand side. Salt, pepper, and a butter dish is to be set out- one of each for every four to six seats is a decent rule of thumb.

DURING:

Guests are expected to announce themselves by knocking or ringing the bell. When this happens, usually a younger member of the family is sent to answer the door and let them in. Hosts follow shortly after, and hugs and greetings take place. The host offers to take people's coats and bags, or otherwise indicates where they can be placed. Shoes come off and are left at the door.

Tour of the house. This doesn't happen every time, but a quick, "let me show you around" may happen if you expect to be there a full day or longer, or if someone needs to politely stall for time, or if the host is especially happy to have you there or to show you something. This usually skips bedrooms, but a nod will usually be given to indicate adult's rooms, and kid's rooms may be peeked at to show off or do introductions with small children.

Offering seats. Usually starts in the living room, where, "can I get you anything?" Is asked. Options usually include wine, beer, water, some kind of juice, coffee, or tea. Possibly ginger ale or cola, but not usually much in the way of sodas.

At this point, a tray of cookies, biscuits, crackers, or other small snacks might be set our to be shared. Here, it's polite to eat a little and join in on smalltalk.

Dinner. When food is ready to come out of the oven, someone in the host's home will announce that dinner is ready, and guests and hosts will relocate to the dinner table and pick seats. (If there is not enough room at the dinner table for everybody, children's plates will be set at a folding table elsewhere, or in the vacated living room area.)

Some hosts will have guests line up in the kitchen and serve their own food one at a time. The way I was taught, hosts bring food and serving utensils to the table and sit once everything is placed. Dishes are then passed in a circle from person to person as people fill their own plates. It is generally assumed that you will take your portion in such volume that everyone else can receive the same amount as you, or more.

Meal usually includes a meat-based dish, a starch like rice or potato, one to three vegetable dishes, and a bread like a bun or roll that may be buttered.

It is here preferred that you ask for something to be passed rather than reach over food. "Could you pass me the..." or "may I borrow the ..." are good ways to ask.

Elbows stay off the table. You may rest your forearms on the edge if you like, depending on how formal we're talking, but no elbows.

Napkin is spread out flat on your lap to catch anything that may drop or spill. Some people may choose to tuck I into their shirt collar to protect their suit or tie, but I've only really ever seen old folks do that, or people doing it to babies and small children.

It is polite to eat everything on your plate, especially if you served yourself. Once everyone has eaten their plate, seconds may be offered or mentioned. It's considered rude to go in for second servings if others haven't finished their firsts yet. This is a good place for conversation to pick up.

Once everyone is finished eating, a member of the hosts' house (usually a kid, sometimes a volunteer guest assisting) will clear the table, gathering empty plates and such from the guests and taking them to the kitchen to be cleaned. Drinks might be refilled now, and dessert forks or spoons might be brought in.

Dessert usually happens. While the meal itself is traditionally homemade, it is perfectly normal for dessert to be store-bought.

The serving of dessert is much less communal than dinner. The person dishing dessert will normally take a stack of plates and send a runner (again, usually a kid) to take stock of who wants dessert and carry theirs to them.

After dessert, dishes will again be gathered and removed, with the exception of cups. Coffee and tea is customary at this point, and alcohol will disappear. This is when conversation comes back in full swing- talking and unwinding is the goal here, and letting any liquor digest so drivers who may have had a sip will be safe to drive afterwards.

END:

Someone will sigh and take note of the time. This is different depending on the group, but a second round of hugs will be in order. Farewells will be made at the door. If there are plenty of leftovers, the host may insist the guest take some. Borrowed dishes and containers will ostensibly be returned at a casual future meeting, possibly as an excuse to meet up and chat over coffee.

It is polite of the guest to offer a hand with cleaning up. It is polite of the host to insist they not. If they are an acquaintance or someone to be impressed, the guest will not be allowed to help clean unless they make it clear that offense will be taken otherwise. If they're a close friend or family member, they may be accepted with some minimal pushback.

The host might start cleaning while the guest is still at the table. This is not intended as an insult.

It is polite to leave around the same time that children begin getting ready for best- usually around 8, 8:30, 9-9:30 on special occasions.

If the weather is especially terrible, or driving conditions are poor, the host might offer the guest a bed for the night. If this is done, it is best to fetch them clean sheets and blankets, a fresh towel, and whatever else they might need. They will be expected to stay no later than breakfast the following morning, unless further plans have been agreed upon. An especially prepared host might have a spare set of pajamas (close friends and family only, usually) and a new toothbrush ready for use.

I think that's everything? A lot of it is weird unspoken shit but yeah lol that's most of what I remember.

I'd love to hear what everyone else grew up with!! Share with me your food culturrrrrrre

[tinmate]

I want Katelyn to be a little bit weird. She's very nice and polite to Neil in the books but I want that to be her being a decent and socialized human being who's nice to everyone at first.

Deep down I want her to be a little bit of a weirdo who lets it out when you get to know her. She keeps texting Neil and discovers that they have the same fucked up little sense of humor. They scheme on less dramatic things than getting the twins to go to therapy together. @unfortunately-not-a-chip has a social media au where she and Neil pretend to be estranged siblings to mess with Aaron and I want this exact energy for her. She and Neil both eat kiwis the skin on and it freaks everyone else out (Neil is a feral cat but Katelyn has no excuse. She just shrugs and smiles sunnily as the team gags around her) Neil says her newborn looks like a naked mole rat and she goes "Yeah <3 <3 <3" She came up with at least one of the names for the cats. When she and Aaron go visit Neil and Andrew, she goes on morning runs with Neil. She's not as fast and can't keep up for quite as long but Neil's going on another one later anyways so he's happy to keep pace with her while chattering on and she's happy to listen. Andrew and Aaron are briefly united in absolute disgust for this behavior because who goes on a run to watch the sunrise?????

She and Kevin are the only people who prefer oatmeal raisin cookies to chocolate chip. She and Dan enjoy watching gross, up close pimple popping videos (I know these weren't a thing in 2006 just let me live) ((and maybe they're watching them in the 2020s)). She teaches Nicky how to roll up stray cat hair and shape it into little hats. Allison asked her for a piece of gum and she went "Sure!" and pulled the one she was currently chewing out of her mouth and offered it to her. She once pulled a rubber chicken, a wire cutter, and a novelty magnet out of her purse and just said "You never know" when asked about it (Renee nodded wisely and offered her a single chopstick, which she added to her purse with great enthusiasm.) She puts sunscreen on Aaron by smearing it across his forehead and going "Simbaaaaa" like Rafiki. Matt hears her do this and lifts Aaron bodily into the air like the Lion King. This is the height of comedy to her and Aaron is always a little jumpy that Matt's gonna do it again.

She chews on erasers, she likes the smell of gasoline, she briefly convinced Aaron that women shed their skin when menstruating, she's a woman of science (it's her degree after all) but she's a Sasquatch/Loch Ness monster truther, she gets really into the Mothman (first sightings are from 1966) and is extremely vindicated when the rest of the world joins the hype train in the 2020s, she thinks cilantro tastes like soap but she likes to eat it anyways.

Andrew "offhandedly" mentions that he killed Tilda and she grins big and wants to know more. They may never truly be close but she's the only person other than Neil to lean in after hearing about this and it wins her a little begrudging respect and the tiniest bit of defrosting from Andrew.

[digitalsymbiote]

What makes a Mech a Mech?

Now you might think it's the shape: Humanoid, bipedal, articulated limbs. And once upon a time that might have been the case. These days those machines are a lot more diverse though, come in all sorts of shapes and sizes; you got quadrupeds, winged mechs, hell sometimes ones that don't got any arms or legs at all.

No, what makes a Mech a Mech, is the Neural Link.

Mechs are unique in the way that their pilots get wired into them. They plug their brain into a machine and they become that machine.

Y'see that's why so many of the early models were so standardized, modeled after our own anatomy and musculature. Back when the tech was first being developed, the test pool was pretty limited. All military types, foot soldiers and the like. Those folks tend to have something of a limited imagination, creativity and individuality gets beaten out of 'em until they conform to the template of what the military wants 'em to be.

Which means they aren't all that great at imaginin' their body as anythin' other than what it is.

So all those early prototypes had to conform to that. If they wanted a pilot to have a decent enough Link Aptitude, they needed Mechs that the pilots could see themselves as. Folks were already used to havin' two arms and two legs, replacin' 'em with metal instead of flesh was a short enough leap that those folks could handle it.

But y'see then they started expandin' the applicant pool; researchers and developers moved outside the military in search of folks with higher Link Aptitude. And they found that humanity is a lot more diverse than that template the military beats into its soldiers. Turns out folks can be a lot more creative with their body map. Not everybody fits into that standardized definition of what humanity is.

They were lookin' in the completely wrong place with the military, turns out. Conformity is all well and good when you're trynna rush somethin' off the assembly line, but when you're trynna really push the limits of what's possible? Well you gotta get a bit more creative with it.

That's why you don't usually see the jugheads piloting mechs anymore. They ain't as good with all the fanciness companies are packin' into them these days. Now y'know who is good with all of that? Queer folks. Transgender folks especially. Turns out growin' up in the wrong body and learnin' to deal with that makes you real good at dissociatin' and messin' with your body map. Makes it a lot easier to trick your brain into thinkin' some weird part of this metal colossus is actually part of your body now.

Once they sorted that out, synchronicity rates skyrocketed. Led to a lot of other good things too. Y'see suddenly Queer and Trans folks were prime candidates for bein' pilots, corpos needed 'em. Which meant they had to make it safe enough for folks to be those things, or at least enough to admit it to the recruiters. Kinda funny thinkin' back, that that was what tipped the scales, but I suppose you can always trust corpos to do what corpos do.

But anyway, that's why so many Mechs are custom made to their pilots nowadays. That's why they craft the IMPs alongside the pilots through basic training. You gotta build a system that'll fit the pilot's body map, and ideally one that'll make the most of it.

If that pilot's more comfortable with a tail? Give that Mech a tail. Digitigrade legs? Quadrupedal? Fuck it, if it works for the pilot, throw that shit on there. Y'see ultimately, through the Neural Link, all you gotta be able to do is trick your brain into thinkin' that Mech is your body, and then it's off to the races.

And that moment, when your mind slips into that metal monstrosity and suddenly you feel more at home than you ever did in your own flesh and blood? That's what pilots live and die for. That's how you know the engineers did a good job.

And that's what makes a Mech a Mech.

[johannestevans]

do you have any advice for an autistic adult who hasn't yet lost their virginity due to the social aspect? I'm terrified not of the act itself, that's fine, I get myself off just fine all the time, but that I won't act the right way, that I'll try too hard to be sexy and it'll be cringy or not try hard enough and be off-putting

Oh, honestly, I think a lot of people worry about that a lot of the time they have sex, whether it's for the first time, or the first time they're just trying a new act, or just when it's somebody new or somebody they've not seen in a while.

Sex is ultimately something extremely vulnerable - you're literally dressed down, you're generally in private together, the other person is very concentrated on you and you very concentrated on them - so there can be a lot of concern about how you're going to perform, how you're going to look, if you're going to be sexy or embarrassing, or whatever else.

When I first had sex after like eight or ten years of celibacy after my more active (and abused) life in my teens, it did feel a lot like a sort of virginity, and I basically just had a decently anonymous hook-up with a nice fella on Grindr. He was on the shy side and had some insecurities himself, but for me, the fact that it was so anonymous and low-stakes eased the way for me - you might find that, or you might find that on the other side, someone you already know very well and trust quite intimately will be more comfortable and be more of a balm for your anxiety.

People make a big thing about sex and its social or intimate or romantic implications, but it's ultimately just another slightly silly thing that people do together. It's inherently undignified and a bit absurd, no matter how well a sex scene is edited in a film, and with how great a sound track.

I don't say this to say sex can't be important, or that it can't feel really great or even really emotionally important, because it absolutely can be.

It's just the truth that you and another person or people are also going to be wrestling and wobbling about together, with at least some of your clothes off. You're going to be smelling each other. You're going to be up close, very upclose, with each other's genitals and arses and chests, and armpits and ears and ankles. Now and then, one of you is going to fall over, or accidentally hit the other one in the nose, or put your elbow on the wrong bit of them and make them go "ow!" and you'll lurch back and go, "fuck, sorry!", and sometimes you'll lurch back too far and fall off the bed.

Sometimes, the bed - or wherever else you're getting up to this - will break. Sometimes, the dog will manage to open the bedroom door and leap onto the bed, midway through the act, and excitedly introduce a sodden, mostly-chewed rawhide into the activity. Sometimes one of you will release the most incredibly musical fart in the world, at the worst possible time.

Sometimes, the sex will just straight up be bad. The time won't be right, or you'll have a slight cold and you'll keep wanting to blow it or swallow phleghm and it'll be gross but you'll also genuinely be quite horny, or you and your partner will be slightly mismatched in rhythm and size and keep giving each other unlikely bruises.

Sometimes, you will be utterly nude, you'll be gazing deeply into one another's eyes, your body will feel tense and aching a bit but at the same time, perfect. There'll be sweat sheening on both of you, you'll both be breathing hard and sharing the same breath, you'll have managed a sublime rhythm that seems to be seeping into the very core of you, your orgasm a more distant concern than making this moment, this perfect moment, last for as long as possible, because it just feels so good, so intimate, so loving, so perfect--

And then the fire alarm will go off.

And it will be the absolute worst thing in the world, but also, you probably will laugh about it - laugh uproariously, at the sheer juxtaposition of it, as you either try to quickly finish or stumble out of bed to put on dressing gowns, and hope none of your neighbours or the fire people look at you in too much detail when you're waiting downstairs.

Your concerns about seeming like you're trying too hard, trying too hard to be sexy, ending up a bit cringe, not trying hard enough and ending up flat - you might have these same anxieties going out for coffee with someone, or playing Dungeons and Dragons or improv-ing with someone, or doing karaoke.

You and your partner(s) will be in the same boat of vulnerability when you have sex - they might have the same or similar anxieties to the ones you do. Part of the reason that sex is generally best with someone you trust is because that vulnerability is part of it.

You're trusting the other person with your naked body and how it looks and feels and smells; you're trusting the other person to touch you the right way, use the right lube and prophylactics; you're trusting the other person to basically do rhythmic exercise with you, and that includes all the sweat and physical exertion that comes with that.

There may well be times you try too hard to be sexy, and your partner says "you can probably tone it back a bit", or even laughs - and there will be time when your partner does the same. Other times, you might well be being "too sexy" - as in, sexier than your partner was prepared for - and they'll be incredibly into it, or jump to match your energy.

Sometimes, the sex will absolutely be cringe, but luckily, that's part of having sex, not to mention life, and sometimes, cringe is delightful.

The first or maybe the second time my partner and I had sex, I couldn't stop infodumping about marine biology and telling him exciting facts (I felt) about different creatures' mating habits, which drove him insane, and not only did he still have sex with me that night, we're going to get married.

I'm not saying "don't worry", because social anxiety doesn't really listen to "don't worry", but part of the reason your anxiety has so much mileage in this internal conversation is because sex in your head might still be there as like, a capital-letter activity that requires infinite decorum and consideration and with so much stuff for you to do wrong, and that bubble will burst a bit when you do start having sex with other people and the mystique goes away, but will always be there a little bit.

The tragic thing about sex is that because it's genuinely just a fun thing people do together, your social anxiety has as much reach there as it does any other activity you might pursue with someone, but the good news is that once you have sex a few times, it will hopefully just be the same level of anxiety you do have with any other activity.

"Virgin" is made out to be this big thing, but people are virgins at new activities every day. Driving a car, going out for dinner in a fancy restaurant, wearing suspenders, going swimming, et cetera. It's really not a bad thing to be, but it's also not necessarily a momentous thing to stop being either. You'll be great!