#not 100% happy with this one but it's whatever

[fushitoru]

worth the wait a nerdjo fic

pairing ⸺ nerd/academic rival/rich boy!gojo x reader

summary ⸺ you abhor your academic rival, satoru gojo. he's a cocky asshole that you fight with constantly for the spot at first place. but when you finally discover what's underneath all those lame sweaters of his with a once in a blue moon visit at the gym (spoiler alert: he's not a scrawny nerd), you'll be fighting your severe attraction to the man who makes your life a bit harder. and maybe fall in love with him, too, in the process.

warnings ⸺ smut, f recieving oral, praise, he makes you beg for it lol, p i v sex, making out, angst if you squint, a lot of fluff, college AU, nerd!gojo, reader gets insecure sometimes and is treated horribly by her discord mod TA/research advisor, typical misogyny/sexism in STEM fields, but gojo defends her!!!, sleeper build gojo with a happy trail because im a slut, the good old pining and yearning i like. art by @/deltapork

a/n thank u to all my beta readers for editing part of this for me :3 happy valentines day!!!

general masterlist

You blink at your paper.

98.

You suppose you should be happy—it’s a graduate level physics class, anyways. For a moment, you stare at the red markings of the TA that graded it, as if willing an error in the one problem you made a mistake on could make it go away. 

2+2=5.

You exhaled sharply, almost fighting back tears. You’d think you could avoid simple arithmetic mistakes, but apparently doing tensor products comes easier than simple addition to you. Shoving your backpack on your chair, you stuff in your laptop and the test haphazardly, not caring that it’s going to get messed and crumpled up in your backpack after your folders and binders jostle around. Fuck that test.

You wouldn’t normally act as if the test had personally wronged you—trust, you were not going to get that heated were it any class. But because of this one class, one person, you knew it was coming. The inevitable.

"Better luck next time." The voice, drenched in smug satisfaction, slithered through the air behind you, his voice and demeanor like a slimy, slimy snake. 

Your jaw tightened, but you forced yourself to remain calm as you turned around. And there he was—Gojo Satoru, the bane of your existence, a plague upon your academic record, a walking, talking statistical anomaly who somehow managed to be both infuriatingly brilliant and aggressively insufferable.

He leaned against the desk beside yours, glasses sliding down just enough to reveal the glint of those ridiculously blue eyes. He crosses his arms while they’re covered in that ridiculous, ugly sweater he’s wearing—he’s probably going for the old money aesthetic, but he doesn’t need to know he gives off more “finance bro that helps billionaires evade taxes,” or whatever finance bros do.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” you sniff, pretending to act nonchalant while you grab your backpack, swinging it roughly on your shoulder like it was the weight of your grievances against him.

"The test." Gojo unfolded a crisp sheet of paper with the kind of theatrical flourish reserved for revealing royal decrees. A perfect 100, circled in bold red ink.

Your stomach twisted. This is what those two points meant. Two stupid, meaningless, soul-crushing, rage-inducing points.

"Guess that makes it… what, five to three this semester?" He tapped his chin, pretending to count, as if the score wasn’t already seared into your brain like an irreversible branding. "My lead, obviously. But hey, if you ever need tutoring, I could always squeeze you in."

You bite the inside of your cheek in frustration. “I wouldn’t want to impose on the time for any of your hobbies. After all, when will you get the time to watch anime? My 5000 Year Old Girlfriend is Stuck in a Twelve Year Old’s Body, was it?”

He presses a hand to his chest in mock hurt, as if your words had truly pierced him through his chest. “Tut, tut. After all this time, I’d think you’d have my anime preferences memorized since you’re so obsessed with me. It’s Digimon, not whatever pedophilic shit you think I jerk off too.” He pauses, and then his voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper. “But you know Fred, the grad student TA that holds recitation every Wednesday? I just know he’s probably a Discord mod of a server that sends, like, daily tentacle porn. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on the Megan's law registry either.”

Now, you have to hold back your smile because Gojo has a point. Fred is not just any TA. Fred is the grad student that mentors you on a research project; the program’s super selective, so when you realized you got him, you couldn’t just back out and give up the opportunity. However, Fred isn’t just a weird–-he’s sooo handsy with his greasy ass hands, so you accept any and all Fred slander. Because he’s your research advisor, you can’t wait to finish the project any faster. He probably would be into underage girls, but you don’t need to express your approval to Gojo, or worst of all, let him think he’s funny. God knows that would get into his head. “Yea, yea. Whatever. Anyways, I hope you have fun with your Pokemon—”

“Digimon.”

“—or whatever. I’m leaving. Some of us have things to do. Later, Gojo.”

You turned on your heel, lest Gojo hook you in with another taunt. 

Maybe you needed to blow off some steam, if you’re allowing yourself to lose to Gojo. 

Worst of all, it’s become a streak, like two times in a row—one on this quiz, and the other on the midterm a few weeks back. Your mind goes back to the last women in STEM recruiting event you had went to, and, how, in the middle of taking a bite of the delicious margherita pizza they offered, you registered that the woman in the panel had insisted that what helped her power through her PhD and dickwad supervisors was by exercising. Her fervor over pilates could almost qualify as a cult pitch, but it made you pause at the moment. Before you continued to further engorge yourself on the food offered on the charcuterie board. 

But maybe it was time to hone your focus in, and some sweaty endorphins might help you get just that. 

You’re not really surprised the demographic at your university’s gym looks like the way it does. After all, not only was it renowned for its academics (from all the nepo babies like Gojo whose families donated buildings and had like four generations of alumnus), but it was also a Division I school. So not only was the gym packed but it was packed with men.

As you walked in the hallway towards the room that contained weight machines, gym bag slung over your shoulder, you eyed the glistening backs of the (D1, mind you) men’s swim team through the glass that separated your path and the swimming pool. 

Wow, those Speedos really hugged their asses. You imagined Gojo in one, and almost snorted. Rich boy nerd Satoru definitely didn’t  learn how to swim; his family’s mansion probably had a twenty year old personal lifeguard that Gojo lost his virginity to, or something. Regardless, he would squint in his silly swim goggles, the exact antithesis of sex appeal while his glow-in-the-dark eyes lit up the pool while he stroked, cheeks puffed like a pufferfish.

Regardless, the smell of testosterone that hits you when you enter the weight area is almost nauseating, and, if you’re honest, a little intimidating. You’re not exactly the fittest of people, so you quickly speed walk past the grunting and sweaty men at the squat machines and barbells, avoiding eye contact and praying furiously that none of them perceive you.

 When you reach the dumbbell stands, you hunch over, taking random light weights. Then, you pretend you know what you’re doing while jumping every so slightly whenever anyone comes in six foot distance of you. It’s only when another girl comes in to grab a weight (and when she bends over, you definitely ogle her ass in a way that would get you slapped if you were a man) that your gaze removes itself from where it was focused on the 2.5 lb dumbbell you were previously bicep curling with. To see him.

The glint of ivory hair is unmistakable—you’ve basically gotten off to the fantasy of razoring it off in his sleep. His blue eyes are bored, pretty boy face framed in glasses. Now, he’s giving teenage boy turned to Andrew Tate after a breakup. Black sweatshirt and sweatpants that are too small, because they cling to his legs in a form-defining way. He’s walking over, hands in his pockets, to a barbell station. Slaps some guys on the shoulder as he goes through, gets a lot of daps. 

Which is weird to you, because you only the Gojo inside your physics class, not outside. He’s a fucking nerd—a loser that spends his time beefing with you, so why is he so popular when he gives you the time of day?

There are three dimensions to gaining alpha status, or whatever they call male popularity. You have to be 1) rich, 2) really physically fit, or 3) just really charismatic. Considering that Gojo—in all his clothing—-looks like a twink moreso than ripped gym bro, it’s definitely not dimension two. So you conclude that it’s because he’s rich and probably throws yacht parties so these ripped guys don’t push him into a locker, or something.

When he finally reaches his destination, you smirk to yourself. With that scrawny build underneath all those loose sweaters, you know he’s only going to be able to lift the bar, no plates. After all, he was warming up. insulting Gojo in countless of ways by taking jabs at his physique mentally, so you barely register that he’s grabbing for the hem of his sweatshirt, peeling it up—

To reveal his bare torso.

Your first thought: Wow, he has huge bazonkas.

That has easily got to be one of the most built physiques you’ve seen at your college so far. His pectorals basically pop out out of his torso as he moves to grab plates. First, he grabs a really big plate—you’re not a gym expert, so you wouldn’t know the weight—and stacks it. And stacks another. And another. And another, until you’re sure it’s definitely more than your bodyweight.

As you’re staring at him in awe, your 2.5 lb dumbbells hang limply by your sides, abandoning all pretense of training to openly gawk at the clench of his biceps, the sweat rolling down his temple, and the set of his jaw as he stares holes into the bar. And by the way there’s heat creeping up your cheeks you realize one thing:

You’re screwed.

“You know what?”

You keep your eyes on your notes firmly, refusing to look at Gojo sitting right next to you. You don’t know why he always chooses to sit next to you on recitation, really—it’s not like you’re receptive to his company. After all, he could be doing other things—like metaphorically sucking a TA’s dick by talking about their research, where Gojo probably knows more about the TA’s research than they do themselves. 

From your periphery, you notice Gojo pouting, then scooting his chair (dragging it, so it makes a god awful screeching noise against the floor tiles that has you cringing) until he’s so close that he slings an arm on the back of your chair and leans in closer and closer. You’re fighting to keep your eyes on your notes, face heating up traitorously until you feel his breath fan across your neck because he’s just so close.

“Rude, ignoring me. Look where that got you.” He then points to a problem on your paper, one you were currently working on. “You’re doing that wrong.”

You finally turn to glare at him, but he’s closer than you anticipated, his face just inches from yours. His grin is all sharp edges and knowing amusement, and it makes your stomach flip in a way you refuse to acknowledge.

“I’m not doing it wrong,” you argue, despite the creeping suspicion that, okay, maybe you did mess up somewhere.

“Oh, really?” Gojo drawls, tilting his head slightly. “Then why is your integral off by a factor of two?”

Your eyes snap back to your notes, scanning through the equations—and, dammit, he’s right.

You huff, begrudgingly erasing the mistake. “Whatever.”

“You know, you should really be thanking me,” Gojo muses, still leaning way too close for comfort. “If I weren’t here, who knows how many mistakes you’d make?”

“She’d have me,” comes a greasy voice, and you have to fight the tears in your eyes that arise when Fred (the aforementioned pedophilic TA and your research advisor) comes, his moldy cheese stench following him as he takes a seat from across you and Gojo. You grudgingly turn your face away from where it was so close to Gojo’s to look at him and sigh inwardly. At least Gojo’s face was prettier to look at.

“Hi, Fred,” you smile tightly, willing him to go away. “We’re good here, so you can help out other students—”

“How was your weekend?” He instead replies, and you wince. Stealing a quick glance at Gojo, it seems that his jaw and posture are uncharacteristically tense. 

“Lot of work for the class and for, uh, our research,” you respond, nodding and averting your gaze to your paper and feigning working on a problem so that he would get the hint.

Fred, unfortunately, does not get the hint. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes too focused on you. “You really ought to take breaks, you know. You can give me the code late. Someone as cute as you shouldn’t stress so much. You’ll get wrinkles.”

Your fingers tighten around your pencil, your skin crawling at the way his tone veers into something too familiar, too patronizing. You open your mouth to give a clipped response, but Gojo beats you to it.

“Oh? Didn’t know you were an expert on skincare, Fred,” Gojo drawls, his voice deceptively light. His arm, which was still resting on the back of your chair, shifts just slightly—not quite pulling you in, but making his presence more noticeable. “Though, if we’re giving out advice, maybe you should take your own. I mean, stress must be rough on you too, right? All those late nights grading papers, staring at screens. Takes a toll.”

Fred bristles, but Gojo just smiles lazily, pushing up his glasses as he tilts his head. “Actually, you know what? Maybe we should all focus on our own business. Like, say, teaching, instead of weirdly hovering over students. Crazy thought, huh?”

You swear you see the muscle in Fred’s jaw twitch, but he forces out an awkward chuckle, shifting uncomfortably. “Right, right. Just looking out for her.”

“Don’t worry,” Gojo interrupts smoothly, now fully leaning into your space, his arm draping a little lower behind your chair, “I think she’s got plenty of people looking out for her already.” His voice is soft, but there’s an undeniable edge beneath the words.

Fred lingers for a second too long, but finally, he mutters something about helping another student and stands, walking off with an air of forced nonchalance.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, slumping slightly in your seat. Gojo hums beside you, his fingers tapping idly against the back of your chair.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he teases, but there’s something in his tone that’s softer than usual. He then makes a show of stretching, raising his arms. His sweater rides up a bit, exposing his lower abs and peeks of white that has you averting your gaze, the heat creeping up at his proximity once again. Then, his arm back on your chair. Weirdly, you find that you don’t mind it.

You sigh, resigned. You’ll figure out these feelings later. “Yeah. Thanks, Gojo.”

But you don’t immediately go back to your work, because Gojo suddenly hunches down and whispers in your ear. “Yea, I definitely saw an underage anime girl sticker on his laptop.”

Your responding snort is so loud everyone turns to look at you and Gojo, who is now sporting a mischievous and satisfied smile.

It starts with a single drop, fat and cold where it splats against your wrist. You glance up from your phone just in time to see the sky split open.

“Shit,” you mutter, stuffing your phone into your bag. The library doors shut behind you with a heavy clang, sealing away the scent of old books and the quiet hum of studying students. Outside, the air is thick with the petrichor of freshly fallen rain, and within seconds, the pavement is slick, puddles forming in the uneven cracks of the sidewalk. The streetlights reflect off the wet ground, casting fragmented golden glows against the darkening sky. You’d been studying to grind for the upcoming assignments; after all, to rival Gojo is a no small feat. It’s just unfortunate it seems to take you thousand times more effort than it does for Gojo.

“Guess we’re stuck together, huh?”

You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

Satoru Gojo, standing beside you under the library’s narrow overhang, wearing that insufferable grin like he’s amused by the entire situation. Like the rain personally fell from the sky just to give him an opportunity to bother you.

“I’ll take my chances,” you say flatly, shifting your bag on your shoulder. But as you peer past the downpour, your stomach sinks. The rain is merciless, an unrelenting sheet of water stretching as far as you can see. There’s no way you’re making it back to your dorm without looking like you took a fully clothed shower.

Gojo hums, pulling something out of his bag. You blink when he flicks open a half-broken umbrella, the metal ribs slightly bent like it’s barely holding itself together. He gives it a little shake, sending droplets flying, before glancing at you with a smirk.

“Well?” He lifts a brow. “Wanna be smart about this?”

You do not want to be smart about this. You want to wait out the rain or make a break for it. But the storm shows no signs of letting up, and the thought of walking through it alone makes you hesitate.

Reluctantly, you sigh. “Fine. But I get most of the cover.”

“Hey, sharing is caring.” He tilts the umbrella slightly, just enough to make a point.

With great reluctance, you step closer. The moment you do, you regret it.

Gojo is warm. Even in the damp, chilled air, he radiates heat, standing so close that his sleeve brushes against yours. He smells good, too—like expensive laundry detergent with a faint undercurrent of something sweet, something distinctly him.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stare straight ahead as the two of you start walking. The rain pounds against the umbrella, droplets cascading off the edges, and with every step, you’re hyper-aware of the way Gojo moves beside you—loose-limbed, annoyingly graceful, a stark contrast to the crooked metal above your heads.

“Man, this thing’s on its last leg,” he muses, tilting the umbrella just slightly. Water dribbles off the side, landing directly onto your shoulder.

“Gojo!” you yelp, recoiling as the cold soaks through your shirt.

“Oops.” He does not sound remotely sorry.

You glare at him, but before you can snap back, he shrugs off his jacket and—without preamble—drapes it over you.

You freeze.

It’s warm, still carrying the heat of his body, and it smells so much like him—clean, sweet, dizzyingly familiar. Your brain short-circuits.

You force yourself to breathe, keeping your gaze firmly ahead. “You didn’t have to do that,” you say, voice tight.

“I wanted to.”

Something in his tone makes your stomach flip. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, and—

Damn him. Damn him.

Water drips from his bangs, clinging to the sharp edges of his jawline, sliding down the curve of his throat. His shirt sticks to his skin, fabric clinging in a way that reveals the toned lines of his arms, the broad plane of his chest. He’s watching the rain, the usual teasing glint in his eyes softened into something contemplative.

You swear your eggs just recently got released, for you cannot help but avoid your ever going attraction to Satoru Gojo except the age-old excuse: ovulation. Your mind wanders to how his arms would feel around your head, to lay on his chest, how he’d be able to manhandle you, force you to take it—

But you’re snapped out of your inappropriate thoughts by what he says next.

“You know,” he says, voice quieter now, “I like this. Just us, no grades, no competing.”

You pause.

He says it so simply, so easily, like it’s nothing at all. But the words settle deep, curling somewhere warm inside you, and you don’t know what to do with them.

So you do what you do best: you shove them away, bury them beneath years of rivalry, of late-night study sessions fueled by caffeine and stubbornness, of sharp words and sharper glances.

You roll your eyes, forcing a scoff. “Don’t get used to it.”

But even as you say it, your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket, holding it a little tighter.

It’s been a week since you saw Gojo. He had dropped you at your dorm in a surprisingly gentlemanly way, and you had insisted on returning the jacket only after washing it, to be courteous. What you didn’t mention was how you kept repeatedly smelling it in your dorm whenever you got a reprieve from your roommate’s eyes because Gojo smelled like expensive cologne and he did one thing most nerds / physics majors don’t do: shower. This fact, unfortunately, made you more attracted to him because the bar is truly in hell.

You’ve concluded that these…feelings can’t hurt you and that it isn’t real, like a beefy and shirtless Gojo-looking demon that’ll jump and surprise you from under your bed. So you move on your life, caught in the ever perpetual slog of studying and researching. 

Thus, you find yourself at the library once more.

The night hums low around you, quiet except for the occasional shuffle of paper and the distant hum of the library’s espresso machine (only librarians could use it, however. you fervently thought that was a form of elitism, but you digress). You’re at the corner table, the one by the window, where the dim light pools just enough to illuminate your notes but not enough to make you feel like you’re being studied under a microscope. You think you’re alone—until you aren’t.

You don’t have to look up to know it’s him.

Satoru Gojo is hard to miss, even when he’s not trying. He slides into the chair across from you with the kind of ease that makes it seem like he belongs there, like he was always going to end up sitting across from you tonight. His hair is tousled, white strands falling forward in a way that makes him look softer under the warm light. His glasses are perched low on his nose, a rare sight given that he usually has them pushed up like some kind of pretentious scholar.

The two of you don’t speak.

It’s surprising, really. Gojo never runs out of things to say, whether it’s an obnoxious quip or some unnecessarily insightful observation that makes you want to throw your textbook at his face. But tonight, he just pulls out his own notes, taps his pen against the edge of his lips, and starts reading.

You should focus on your own studying, but something about this—this silence, this late-night haze, this tiny moment carved out of time—makes your mind wander. You steal glances when you think he won’t notice. His brows furrow when he’s concentrating, his jaw tightens when he’s stuck on something, and when he exhales, it’s this slow, measured thing, like he’s trying not to get frustrated. He’s just—

He’s just really there.

You’ve spent years defining Gojo as your rival. Your competition. The person standing in your way at every academic milestone. And yet, somehow, somewhere, he’s slipped into something else, something harder to define. Because you’ve seen him like this before—when he’s so focused that he forgets the world around him, when he bites his lip in thought, when he gets so caught up in something that he mutters under his breath without realizing it. And for the first time, it dawns on you: you don’t actually hate it.

You don’t hate this comfortable silence. This moment of peace, a white flag waving lazily between you both.

The hours blur. The café starts to empty. Your notes turn into background noise. It’s late, and the warmth from inside lulls you into something dangerously close to comfort.

A soft sound breaks through the quiet.

You glance up and freeze.

Gojo’s head has tilted to the side, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. His hand is curled loosely around his pen, and his breathing has evened out. He’s asleep.

For a moment, you don’t move. You barely breathe.

Gojo, asleep, is not something you’ve seen before. He’s always in motion, always buzzing with energy, always running his mouth about something. But right now, he’s still. His long lashes cast faint shadows over his cheekbones, and the tension he always carries—the cocky bravado, the smirking sharpness—is nowhere to be found. He just looks… peaceful.

Cutie.

What?

The thought slips in so quickly, so effortlessly, that it nearly makes you jolt. But when you look at him again—head tilted just slightly, glasses slipping down his nose, breathing slow and even—you can’t deny that the word fits. He looks like a lazy cat napping in a sunbeam, limbs loose, utterly unguarded. It’s so unlike him that you find yourself staring, caught in the contrast.

Your fingers twitch. Before you can stop yourself, you reach forward, slow and hesitant, to push his glasses back up his nose. But you catch yourself just before you touch him, as if the warmth of his skin might burn. Your hand hovers in the air for a fraction of a second too long, and then—

You pull away.

Your heart is pounding. It’s fine. It’s nothing. You just need to get out of here.

You gather your things quietly, glancing back at him one last time before slipping out the door into the cool night air. The moment you step outside, you take a breath, deep and shaking. The world feels different now. You feel different now.

Because for the first time, it isn’t just that you find Gojo attractive.

It’s that you care.

And you don’t know what the hell to do about it.

The gym, once again, smells like sweat and overpriced protein powder.

You don’t know what’s possessed you to come here today. Maybe it’s because you keep telling yourself that you need to exercise more, or maybe it’s because you need to take a break from studying before your brain melts. But deep down, if you’re really being honest with yourself, you know the real reason.

Gojo is here.

You spotted him the first time by accident. You were on the treadmill, barely jogging at a pace that wouldn’t embarrass you, when you caught a flash of white hair across the gym floor. And there he was—dressed in a fitted black sleeveless top and joggers, casually loading plates onto a barbell.

And he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

It was a stupid, inconsequential detail, but it made all the difference. Without them, he didn’t look like the annoying academic rival who constantly got under your skin, flashing his smug grin as he beat you in exams by the smallest possible margins. He looked… sharp. Unfiltered. Effortlessly attractive in a way that made your stomach tighten in ways you didn’t like.

You’d seen him in his regular clothes before, of course. You knew he had broad shoulders and long legs, that his body wasn’t just a lanky frame hidden behind layers of sweaters. But here, in the gym, watching him roll his shoulders as he prepped for another set—it hit differently. He was lean but muscular, his arms flexing as he adjusted his grip on the bar, and for some godforsaken reason, you couldn’t look away.

You shouldn’t be watching him. You should be focusing on your own workout, pretending you don’t care. But the way his shirt clung to his back, the way his forearms tensed, the way he exhaled sharply as he lifted—

You’re so screwed.

You force yourself to look away, grabbing the smallest dumbbells available and curling them in what has to be the weakest excuse for a workout imaginable. You’re barely paying attention to what you’re doing, too busy sneaking glances at Gojo between sets. It’s pathetic, but at least no one else is watching you.

Or so you think.

Because then she appears.

A girl.

Tall, toned, and effortlessly gorgeous, with sleek hair pulled into a high ponytail. She strides over to Gojo with a confidence you could never dream of and smiles at him, saying something that makes him laugh. Her ass is definitely bigger than yours, and she’s in this coordinated, cute, pink set, looking like she walked straight out of a fitness TikTok. You can’t hear what they’re talking about over the sound of weights clanking and some obnoxious EDM song blasting through the speakers, but you can see it. The way she leans in, the way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the way Gojo—

—smiles at her. That easy, lazy grin he always wears when he’s teasing you, except this time, it isn’t for you.

Your grip tightens around the dumbbells, something ugly curling in your chest. It gets worse when she gestures toward the squat rack, and Gojo nods before moving behind her, hands hovering just slightly as she sets up for a squat. You watch as he spots her, one hand resting lightly on her lower back, close enough to correct her form but far enough to be polite. He’s focused, watching her movements carefully, murmuring something that makes her laugh before she drops into another rep.

Your stomach twists.

This is stupid. You have no reason to be feeling this way.

It’s then that it hits you—you can have your silly little academic rival moments with Gojo, but, in the end, you’re just a footnote in his story, a fleeting challenge in a life where everything already belongs to him. He quite literally has generational wealth; he’s not going to spend his life buried in grant applications or clawing for recognition in a field that demands twice the effort for half the reward. He’ll be the one funding the research, sitting at the head of the table, making decisions that shape the future. And you? You’ll be one of the many who struggle just to be in the same room.

He’s the guy who spends his vacations on yachts or private islands—not just surrounded by wealth, but by people who belong there. Girls who glide through life with the same effortless ease as him, girls who don’t second-guess if they deserve to be in the spaces they occupy. Girls who don’t have to fight for their place at the table because it was always set for them.

Girls that are his equal—equally attractive, equally smart, equally rich.

Not you.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to look away, but the image is burned into your mind. The easy way he talks to her. The way she tilts her head when she listens. The way he doesn’t even know you’re here.

You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care.

But you do.

You grip the dumbbells tighter, exhaling sharply. Then you put them back, pick up your water bottle, and walk out of the gym before you do something stupid.

The office is too small. Too suffocating. Too filled with the weight of unspoken words and the sharp-edged smile of Fred, the TA, as he leans back in his chair and laces his fingers together.

"You know," he begins, voice sickly sweet, "I really expected more from you."

You sit stiffly in the chair across from him, your hands curled into fists in your lap, nails digging crescents into your skin. Your heart pounds, but your face remains carefully neutral. You've been called into his office under the guise of "academic guidance," but you know better. You always know better.

"I don't know what you mean," you say, keeping your voice even.

Fred exhales dramatically, shaking his head. "Come on. You and I both know you're barely keeping up in this project of ours."

You grit your teeth. You're not barely keeping up. You're giving him your work at the highest level, at its best. But Fred—Fred has always had a way of twisting things, making you feel small, insignificant, like your achievements are nothing more than accidents.

“I think my progress speaks for itself,” you respond tightly. Mind you, while he was supposed to be your mentor, you’ve done 80% of the work.

But you think Gojo’s defense of you ran deep into Fred’s heart because by the way he’s sleazily smirking at you, you know he’s trying to get back at you.

He smirks. "Your progress? Sure, you’re smart. But you think that’s enough? You think anyone’s going to care about a girl like you when there are people out there who don’t have to struggle to be exceptional?" He leans forward, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. "You’re wasting your time. The best you can hope for is being someone’s assistant. Maybe a glorified research grunt if you’re lucky. Just like for me."

Your stomach twists. You shouldn’t care. You know you shouldn’t care. But the words burrow deep, hitting a place inside you that already doubts, that already wonders if you’re nothing more than a temporary obstacle in a world built for people like Gojo Satoru—people born brilliant, born wealthy, born effortless.

Fred’s eyes flick over you, assessing, smug. "You’re working yourself to the bone for what? You’ll never be at the top. Not really."

The bitterness of the situation really dawns on you—Gojo’s the one who took a jab at Fred last week, not you. But you’re the one who’s left to deal with its consequences. You’re not going to assign blame and lament that it’s not Gojo in this office dealing with him. It was in your defense, after all. 

But Fred’s words remind you. You’ll never be at the top. At Gojo’s level, who’s at the top without even seeming to put in effort.

You’ll never be his equal.

You stand abruptly, shoving your chair back so hard it scrapes against the floor. "If that’s all, I have work to do."

Fred chuckles, leaning back, clearly pleased with himself. "Sure, sure. Don’t say I never tried to give you advice."

You don’t respond. You just walk out, gripping your bag so tightly your knuckles turn white, the echo of his words following you down the hall, settling in your bones like lead.

The hallway is too bright. Too loud. Too full of people who don’t know that you’re on the verge of crumpling in on yourself like a dying star.

Your breath feels too shallow, too quick, and there’s a weight pressing down on your chest that no amount of rationalizing can shake off. It’s not even your meeting with Fred—just a slow accumulation of stress and exhaustion and frustration that’s settled deep in your bones. A grade lower than expected, an upcoming deadline you’re nowhere near prepared for, a general sense of drowning no matter how hard you try to keep up. It’s all too much, and your hands are starting to shake from how tightly you’re gripping the strap of your bag.

You just need to get out of here. You need air, space, something.

But, of course, the universe has a cruel sense of humor, because when you round the corner, you slam straight into Satoru Gojo.

“Whoa—”

Your balance is already precarious from the way you were rushing, and the impact sends you stumbling. For a split second, you think you might actually fall—your ankle twists awkwardly, the world tilts—and then there’s a strong hand gripping your wrist, another bracing against your back, steadying you before you can hit the ground.

You don’t process what happens immediately. Your mind is still stuck on too much, too fast, can’t breathe, and it takes you a second to realize that Gojo is holding you upright, his hands firm but careful, his expression hovering somewhere between amusement and concern.

“Jeez, what’s the rush?” he teases, but his voice lacks its usual careless lilt. He’s searching your face now, eyes narrowing behind his glasses, and that’s when you realize: you must look as bad as you feel.

Shit.

You jerk away from him, a little too fast, a little too sharp. “I’m fine.”

Gojo doesn’t look convinced. “You sure? Because it kinda seemed like you were about to pass out on the spot.”

“I said I’m fine.” You adjust your bag over your shoulder, shifting your weight onto your other foot, ignoring the faint throb in your ankle. “Go bother someone else.”

Most of the time, that’s enough to send him off with an exaggerated sigh and a smirk. But not today.

Today, Gojo just stands there, watching you like he’s trying to piece something together—like you’re a problem he wants to solve. He doesn’t press, not yet, but the silence stretches, and it’s unbearable, because you can feel the weight of his gaze, and you don’t want to be seen like this. Not by him.

So you give him a tight nod in dismissal, and walk away.

There’s a knock at your door. You frown because you didn’t expect any visitors, and you’re in your sleepwear. Regardless, you pad your way lazily and open the door.

To see Gojo.

What the fuck.

He’s drenched in the glow of the hallway light, looking entirely too at home despite standing on your threshold. His hair is still slightly damp from the rain, white strands falling over his forehead in careless disarray. He’s not wearing his glasses.

"Why are you here?" you demand, gripping the doorframe, willing your voice to stay steady.

He quirks an eyebrow, tilting his head just slightly. “You’re holding my jacket hostage.”

Oh. Right.

You make your way to your wardrobe, where the now-cleaned jacket hangs neatly on a hanger. Grabbing it, you hand it over to Gojo, who’s standing at your threshold while eyeing the insides of your dorm, as if trying to take in what your living space looks like. You shove it into his chest, stepping back like the heat of it burns. "Here."

Gojo takes it, but instead of leaving like a normal person, he lingers, running his fingers over the material like he’s checking for something. Then,, he lifts a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it in that way that only makes his biceps flex, his lean muscles shifting beneath his shirt. You hate that you notice.

A beat passes.

"You know," he muses, far too casually, "you seemed a little disheveled back there."

Your stomach twists. "It's not a big deal—"

"—Bullshit." His voice cuts through yours, sharp and immediate. He shifts, stepping just the tiniest bit closer, his tone losing its usual teasing lilt. “You’re lying. I saw what you looked like. What happened?”

“It's none of your business,” you say, stiffening. “Nor is it a big deal, really.”

Gojo exhales, something heavy in the sound. His eyes don’t leave yours, and for once, they aren’t filled with their usual mirth or mischief. Just something searching, something that makes your chest ache in a way you don’t have the strength to deal with right now.

"You always do that," he says, softer now, but no less intense. “Act like no one’s supposed to care. Like you’re carrying the world alone.”

Your fingers curl into your palms. Your lips press together. You don’t want to hear this. You don’t want to acknowledge the way his words settle too close to the truth.

And then, quietly, Gojo asks, “Do you not consider me your equal?”

You swallow.

Your silence must be enough of an answer because something shifts in his expression. It isn’t anger exactly, but it’s something close—something bitter and disappointed and aching all at once.

"You’re the one who shuts me out, you know." His voice is sharp now, edged with frustration. "You act like I'm the one keeping you at a distance, but every time I try to get close, you push me away."

Your throat tightens. “Why do you even care?”

Gojo lets out a breath, his head tilting just slightly, eyes scanning your face like you’re something he’s trying to figure out. Then he laughs, quiet and humorless.

“You really don’t know?”

“I—” Your voice wavers. “What do you mean—”

“For a girl so smart, you sure do act stupid.” He steps forward then, closing the space between you just enough to make you want to back away, but your feet don’t move. His voice drops lower. "Do you think I talk to you because I give a fuck about physics?"

Your brain short-circuits. “What—”

He groans, dragging a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I give zero fucks about the class or any class, trust me. I have better things to do than to try to aim for 100s on every test."

Your heart is pounding now, too loud, too fast. “Then why—”

"God," he exhales, tipping his head back, like he's debating whether or not he should even say it. Then, after a beat, he looks at you again, and whatever is in his eyes makes your stomach flip, makes your breath hitch.

Something in your chest lurches, but before you can even process it, he huffs a laugh—like he’s just remembered something ridiculous.

"You didn’t even look my way the first week," he says, eyes flicking over your face, searching. "I could tell you only cared about anyone that could challenge you. Like, it wasn’t even until I did better than you on the second midterm that you even talked to me."

You open your mouth, then close it, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Because—yeah. He’s not wrong. You had ignored him, dismissed him as just another overconfident rich kid who thought he was smarter than he was. It wasn’t until he proved himself, until he became a real obstacle in your path, that you bothered to acknowledge him.

Gojo smiles, but it’s not cocky this time—it’s small, almost rueful. "And then you looked at me like I was finally real. Like I existed."

Your breath hitches.

He shrugs, eyes dropping for a brief second before snapping back up to yours. "So, yeah. Maybe I started trying harder. Maybe I cared about all those stupid tests because it meant I got to see that fire in your eyes, that I got to be the one you were pushing against." He rubs the back of his neck, his biceps flexing in a way that would usually annoy you, but right now, you’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

Gojo stares at you for a long moment, gaze unwavering, like he’s daring you to say something—anything.

Your chest feels too tight, your pulse erratic, and you don’t know what to do with the way Gojo is looking at you—like you’re something precious, something worth holding onto.

But he’s wrong. He has to be wrong.

“You can’t like me,” you whisper.

Gojo frowns, expression shifting. “What?”

Your throat clenches, and before you can stop it, heat pricks at your eyes, blurring your vision. “You can’t like me,” you say again, voice cracking. “I can’t even match you.”

Gojo's face slackens, his teasing demeanor completely gone.

"You do everything so effortlessly," you force out, your fists clenching at your sides. "It’s so infuriating." A shaky breath escapes you, and you shake your head, looking down. “So why would you even want this? You make me feel this way, and I—I hate you for it.”

For a second, there’s only silence.

Then, Gojo exhales softly.

“Is that what you think?” His voice is so gentle it makes something inside you ache.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Gojo shifts, stepping forward slowly, carefully, like you’re something fragile. And then—then he reaches out, his fingers ghosting along your wrist before curling around it, grounding you. “It’s not effortless,” he murmurs. “I try so hard. You just don’t see it because I don’t want you to.”

"You really don’t get it, do you?" His voice is quieter now, something dangerously close to vulnerable. His fingers twitch at his sides. "I care because it’s you."

You shake your head, still not understanding, still unable to believe it.

Gojo watches you for a moment, then exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You act like I just woke up one day and decided to like you.” He huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no real amusement in it. “Do you know how long I’ve been stuck on you? How infuriating it was, realizing that no matter how much attention I got, the only person I wanted it from was too busy treating me like an obstacle?”

Your breath catches.

“I tried everything,” he continues, voice rougher now. “Teasing you, annoying you, beating you in tests, losing to you in tests. It didn’t matter what I did, because you—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “You only saw me when I gave you a reason to compete.”

Your fingers tremble slightly at your sides. You don’t know what to say, don’t even know what you can say.

And suddenly, everything—the teasing, the constant pestering, the way he always had to be around you—it all clicks into place.

Your heart hammers in your chest, and before you can second-guess it, before you can even think, you surge forward and kiss him.

It’s a mess of a kiss—too rushed, too desperate, all clashing teeth and uneven breaths—but Gojo groans softly against your lips, like he’s been waiting for this. His hands are on you immediately, one slipping around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as he presses you flush against him.

You’re dizzy. Overwhelmed. But it’s good. It’s him, and you don’t want to stop.

When you finally pull away, breathless and unsteady, Gojo is grinning, his lips slightly swollen.

“Worth the wait,” he murmurs, eyes shining.

You avert your gaze, fully blushing now. “But I—” You take a look at him, then hide your face in your hands. “I’m a stalker.”

“Maybe I’m into that.”

“No,” you bemoan. “I’ve stalked you at the gym, and I—” Your voice drops into a shameful whisper. “You were good. Like, stupidly good. Like, making everyone stare at you good.”

His lips twitch. “You were staring too, huh?”

You glare at him, but he just grins, all teeth, clearly eating this up.

“I hated it,” you insist, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “I hated that you’re already smarter than me, that you already have all these advantages, and then—and then you also have that? Like, it’s just unfair. You’re unfair.”

Gojo is silent for a second, and you think you’ve screwed up, but then exhales a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “You are so cute.”

“Stop it!” you whine, but you don’t protest when he pulls you closer and locks your lips with his another time. You clutch the front of his shirt, drag your hands on his chest, his arms, everywhere. Then, you guide his to firmly clutch your ass, to which he freezes.

“We can stop here. We don’t have to do anymore than this, and—”

But you interrupt him, slamming your lips against his once more. Grabbing him by the shoulder you pull him into your room and slam the door behind you, pushing him against the door. “Fuck no.”

He laughs breathlessly, then continues to switch your position, now you against the door. “Thank god. Now, jump.”

You do, and you almost moan at how easily he grabs you in his arms, your legs straddling him. It’s like you weigh nothing to him as he carries you over to your bed and manhandles you into it, following not long after.

When he gets on top of you, he maintains eye contact as he pulls your shirt over your head, trailing kisses down to your neck, the valley of your breasts (but not before giving each of the girls their own tender kiss), and your stomach. With his eyes boring into you, he slowly, teasingly drags the pants you were wearing down your legs until you’re just in your panties.

You let out a noise, and he coos. “I know, I know, baby.” He gives you a gentle kiss on the top of your mound, and you clench, squirming from the contact. “Let me take my time, though.”

He gently, but firmly, lays a hand on your hip as he starts licking the crotch of your panties. It’s truly maddening—the sensation is there, but you oh so wish his skilled tongue was meeting your skin, bare and electric.

He’s taking his time laving, ravishing your taste, but you’ve had enough. “Gojo, please,” you sob, throwing your head back and grinding further into his tongue, which he welcomes. “Stop teasing.”

“Mmmm,” he pretends to think, all while focused and looking only at your crotch, now rubbing your clit in small, miniscule circles. “I can, but,” and now he’s just mocking you, with the way he adopts a babying tone, “I think you’re going to have to beg for it.”

You groan in frustration as a response, but he only clicks his tongue as his fingers reach and finally rid you of your panties. He spreads your folds with two fingers, his face oh so close to your bare pussy. But instead of finally giving you what you want,  he clicks his tongue, pouting as if you’re the one forcing him to be a bastard. “Yea, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to earn it.”

Before you can respond, he holds out his tongue and inches his face even closer to your bare folds until you can feel his warm breath over it. “You just have to say please.” Then, he ahhh-s, as if holding his tongue out to a doctor and says, “Look I’m so close—ahhh.”

You can only plead with him. “Please, Gojo.”

“No, it’s Satoru to you now, baby.”

“Satoru, please eat me out.”

He smiles. “Yeaa, that’s my girl.” And proceeds to eat you out in a way that has your toes curling.

He acts like a man eating his last meal on death row. It’s the masterful combination of laving over your folds, kissing your clit, and groaning and making noises that has you inching closer and closer to your orgasm. When you tell him, you’re close, he does exactly what he’s supposed to do—keep doing what he’s doing, same spot, same tempo, same pressure.

With a cry of his name, you come quickly, and he takes your writhing hips and their motion like a champ, easing you through it. When you feel the all-too-familiar feel of over sensitivity, you grab his hair and pull him towards your face, kissing him tenderly. 

He maneuvers his huge frame to lay down next to you, and you fall easily into a gentle embrace. It’s a comfortable silence, as he burrows his face into your chest and you stroke his hair gently.

Gentler than how you’ve ever treated him.

It’s this thought exactly that you voice to him. “You know,” you muse softly. “I was such a bitch to you.” This gets his attention, because he moves from where he was comfortable (your boobs) to look at you in alarm. “Like, I was always mean, and like acting all high and mighty—”

“Whatever you think you did, it was hot,” he interrupts you, grinning boyishly. “Like damn when you insult me I get all fired up—”

“Satoru!” You laugh, shocked, looking down at him. “You’re crazy.”

“Yea,” he winks. “Crazy for you.”

You smile softly at that, biting your lip. “I mean, I get that.” You feel his curious gaze rove over you and heat creeps up your neck as you confess, “Like I was stalking you at the gym. I saw you one time, and um. You definitely have a sleeper build.”

He hums. “I get that a lot.”

“Yea,” you blurt. “you’re really hot. Like you have really big arms, which I definitely didn’t notice in all those sweaters you wear. You could definitely throw me around.”

Silence.

When you look down at him, he’s looking at you mischievously. He sits up, takes off his shirt, and says, “Want to test that theory?”

The both of you test the theory, indeed—it’s a nice nod to your guys’ academic, theoretical physics roots. But instead of some theory involving dark matter or quantum physics debated while in class, this theory takes all night to prove.

general masterlist

a/n special thank you to @purplegemadventures ily pookie <3 we were discussing how a lot of fics so far have made seem nerd gojo really cute and shy but we tried to envision a shit eating sassy diva just like hidden inventory arc <3 like what that one anon said i need my gojo to be a little annoying cocky (but cute) bastard (or, i quote, "your gojo makes me want to oil his scalp and give him an aggressive head massage and mess his hair up"). ANYWAYS props to that one anon that dropped the "nerd gojo with sleeper build" and my beloved @tiramisuandlove i love you forever

comment and reblog to let me know ur thots!

[mammalsofaction]

The Rizzler

Rating: M

Relationship: Heinz Doofenshmirtz/Perry the Platypus

Add tags: Jealous Perry, possessive Perry, Happy Valentines!, I couldn't help myself, rizzler Perry, human Perry, speaking Perry, hewt and Stemmy, 0-100 real fast like.

Perry might have been approaching this mission with a tad more undeserved aggression than necessary.

It's been…hard, recently. To remember that he and Heinz weren't in an actual relationship, and that this was for good reason. And Perry's pretty sure that whatever it was between them going unspoken, it wasn't one-sided. Heinz had a bit of a talent of talking without saying much of anything, and so within the last few years of their relationship Perry had learned to read the fine print: where his touch lingered, their eyes meeting seconds too long, the genuine enjoyment of companionship, not to mention the unabashed domesticity.

They were a thing, not that they said anything out loud. Not in so many words...so he. Forgets.

Heinz had always had a more active social life than Perry himself, say nothing of his attempt of a love life in the wake of his divorce. He'd always known Heinz to be...the more sexually active between the two of them as well. Sure, the dating attempts had cooled down significantly since they'd gotten close a year or so ago, but never zero, so every couple of months, he'd get lonely enough to try.

Case in point:-

"Gott, that is so unfair, Perry the Platypus," he complained, scowling. " That thing has a single charge every 12 hours, and my date is tonight. One blast-you don't even need any help, rizzing wise! You have plenty of rizz on your own!"

Perry scowls, wondering who in the hell had taught him that. Vanessa, probably, although Norm was going through a bit of an online phase right now.

The Inator had been small, portable; only a little bulkier than a full-size pistol—the barrel stubbier, but it was all in all about 5.5'' give or take—and so the wrestling that ensued had involved a lot more handsy and personal than usual. (Which was saying something.) There was that usual tension charging the unavoidable intimacy that entailed much of their fighting now, but Perry had spent most of his attention on how pissed be felt—pissed as he usually does, when he's forced to share in Heinz's attentions, when Heinz chose to be difficult, pissed over the fact that he had no right to be pissed, so he was pissed over the fact that he felt pissed in the first place, and finally. Pissed over the fact that Heinz would think that he would need a "Rizzler-Inator" in the first place.

It wouldn't matter with the right person, Perry'd thought to himself. Heinz was sweet, attentive, dedicated. He was a great cook and a wonderful father, and he was a little dorky—sure, but that simply added to his charm. The lilt of his Drusselsteinian accent was rugged, and Heinz was interesting, and he didn't need a fucking Rizzler-Inator to score a hot date when Perry was right there in the first place!

We digress.

Their usual game of cat-and mouse had taken them over an hour. Heinz docked him in the jaw, and Perry had slammed his head into a railing. By the time Perry'd tackled him onto the balcony and sat in Heinz's lap, the weather had gotten stormy and grey, minutes away from the storm the radio had announced this morning. (Which Perry only noticed due to Phineas and Ferb's verbal dissapointment, and Lawrence's gripe on why such a storm had to happen on Valentine's Day.) Heinz insistently had the nozzle pointed to himself, and looking back—the effect wouldn't even be permanent, much less any way harmful to the people around him. There was, of course, that small political risk of repeat events following the De-Handsome inator, but even that could be easily curbed.

Nevertheless, Perry was being paid to ensure even that slight risk would never come into fruition, and he was feeling particularly vindictive. The Inator is humming: that recognizable melody of a fully charged machine, and with a twist of Heinz's wrist and a roll of places—the trigger gets pulled, and Perry gets a faceful of Rizz.

Despite the weather, Perry feels warm, tingly. He blinks away the black spots in his vision just in time to tune into Heinz's tantrum. He's been thrown back from the recoil of the Inator—not excessively, but Perry still has to roll over a bit blindly to find the source of that familiar whining.

Above them, thunder rolls. The first drips would fall, and soon.

"Maybe I'd have to cancel anyway." Heinz was saying sadly. "The blind date events include barhopping, and a dinner picnic at Danville Park. It's a bust—Lord, why do I ever bother?"

Perry frowns, pulling his collapsible umbrella out of his hat. His heart aches: with guilt, yes, and not a little bit of shame, because Heinz hadn't even meant to hurt anyone. He just meant to give his own heart a bit of a reprieve, and the hypocrisy doesn't escape him: it is Perry who hurts him, and it is Perry still who soothes the balm.

Heinz is still sat on his haunches when Perry comes forward with the umbrella, and Perry makes sure Heinz's titanium fingers curl around the stem as it exchanged hands. An unspoken hold this.

"Wh-?" Said Heinz. "Did you have this when you came here?"

Once he ensured the hold was secure, Perry finds his hands move to cup Heinz's chin instead, initiating eye contact—deep and heated. It's bold. Almost too bold. But Heinz clamps up at the sight of it, his cheeks growing flushed.

"Let's get you out of the rain," Perry says, and it's… gentle. As gentle as he almost never allows himself to be. "Sugar dissolves in water."

That does it. Heinz's face explodes in a riot of color, and even as Perry guides him up, up, to his feet, inside he is almost frozen stiff in surprise of his own actions.

"May I?" Perry says, gesturing to the Inator still clutched in Heinz's hand, and he hands it over silently, almost timidly. Perry doesn't look as he to throws it over Heinz's shoulder (though he hears it break over the tiled floor), but when Heinz turns—outraged—Perry grips his chin firmly to bring his attention back to him. "Keep your eyes on me." He growls lowly, pushing Heinz back, back, under the shade of the lab, into the wall. Heinz gasped, for another host of reasons, and he abandons his grip on the umbrella when Perry hikes his leg over his hip, in order to curl his arms over Perry's shoulder. "Or I'll make sure you do."

Heinz's breath stutters, restarts, and they're pressed so close that Perry can feel him gulp. "Well," he said weakly. "Nice to see that the Inator works."

Perry hadn't even considered that. But then again, his mind is on greener pastures. All he knows is that he's feeling manic, hot, brave. Making sure that Heinz was still looking—and he was, too entranced to even think about looking anywhere else—Perry throws his fedora over his own shoulder. And with it; the built in body-cam attached to it's band.

Carl has seen a lot, but OWCA wasn't about to have anything to do with what he's planning to do next.

"I understand the weather has cleared the rest of your…evening, doctor?" Perry purrs, and Heinz whined. "I have suggestions with what we might do to pass the time…inside."

Heinz gulps again, heart beating. When he speaks, it's with a breathy stutter. "I-well, I'm-I'm sure we can fit you in."

Perry smirks. "I'm sure you can."

Denial moment

[mmkclarkey]

We have a spare room- Part 4

When all goes wrong, moving in with three guys will help?

6 months. Half a year living with Chris, Arthur and George.

According to Chris, it was a cause for celebration, one that just insisted that you had to have a party. That’s why your weekly trip to B&M had turned into a 2 hour trip, all three of them picking out party cups and plastic shot glasses and literally anything you can find for a party.

“Whats the colour theme?” Arthur asks with a large smile on his face, looking like a child in a sweet shop, Chris following not too far behind with the trolley.

“We don’t have one, why the fuck would we have one?” George replies, laughing at Arthur’s excitement, while Arthur pulled a face at George, making his way towards him to slap the smiling man around the back of the head.

George winced and began to chase Arthur down the aisle, making you and Chris giggle while rolling your eyes.

“God can you two get any more childish?” You said quietly as they caught back up to you minutes later trying to avoid people around you knowing that you lived with these morons.

~

You finished up shopping, and after a fight with Chris over who was going to pay, him winning, you got back to the flat. Flopping down on the sofa had become a regular thing for all of you, normally trying to see who could do it first, and for once, someone other than you won.

Not that you were happy about it, but Arthur’s smile as his head hit the soft cushions was too priceless to be annoyed, even with George and Chris shouting profanities at the brunette sprawled on the sofa, legs hanging over the top, shoes still on.

~

A few hours later, you were lay on your bed after getting ready, lay carefully as not to flatten your curls at the back, or allow the short (too short) dress you were wearing to flash any of your roommates when they come into the room, which would not be the best idea if you were honest.

You hear a knock, faint on the door, making you question whether you actually heard it, but then it comes louder as you jump, saying a monotone “come in”.

Arthur comes in and dramatically flops down on your bed, making you giggle as you question why the man was in your room, not that it wasn’t a common occurrence, it’s just normally all of them together not just one roommate.

“I need your help” he chokes out, grabbing one of your pillows and screaming into it, making you chuckle, fully aware of the dramatics that came with your brunette roommate.

“Whats up? You seem cheery” you laugh sarcastically as he shoots you a glare, making it so that you fly your hands up in self defence, a shit-eating grin still on your face.

“There’s this girl yeah, and she’s coming to the party, because she got a random invite, but I might have a little crush on her, like on social media and stuff” he rambles out, looking as if he’s about to cry from whatever pickle he’d gotten himself into.

“Oh my god!” You laugh out, clapping your hands in excitement. “You are 100% taking your chance tonight I swear arthur!”

“I can’t, she won’t like me like that”

“You’re a stupidly oblivious man Arthur Hill, do you know that?”

“Fuck off”

~

The party was in full swing, people funnelling into the flat every 10 minutes or so, you greeted everyone as they came in, naturally gravitating towards the girls of the friend group, as Sabina, Chip’s fiancée reminded you of how good you look, and how half the guys there are staring.

You look across the room and spot arthur talking to a blonde girl, blushing harder than you have seen him do. Ever. The girl was smiling, laughing along with all his jokes, it was refreshing to see two people so completely enamoured by eachother; almost seeming as if there was no one else around them.

There was a clearing of a throat next to you as you turn your head to the side, George standing next to you looking at arthur and the girl. He spoke up after taking a sip of his beer.

“He looks like he’s in love”

“I know”

You both spoke at the same time.

“It’s cute” you spoke.

“It’s sickening” George laughed.

For a moment you looked at eachother, taking in your opposing views on the situation unfolding in front of you. And then you look back to arthur, letting out a little chuckle.

“You know, one day you’ll find a girl who will make you think love isn’t weird George, and that day will make every girl in the UK cry”

George looks at you, his expression unreadable as he lets out a little hum, walking away from you to go talk to Isaac, avoiding his eyes meeting yours as you shake the feeling off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N- oh I’m so sorry for how long this took! I love you all I swear, and hope you like this one, might have a cheeky couple more coming tonight x (what do we think about hill and his mystery girl, hint: mystery girl is Caitlin, cos she’s amazing x)

Taglist- @loveheart-123 @ooostarwarsfandom501st @rougetv @le-le-lea @onlinesuzie @44-ilton @pretendyoucantseeme @theresglittleronthefloor @raekensluver @viagracex @neivivenaj @authortelevision @kneelforloki @m3l0vesu @deepestlovefromspace @hiatus-xix

[trevorsgodmother]

𝓥𝓪𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓮'𝓼 𝓽𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓽 (M.S 🌪)

☞ Masterlist

A/N: Inspo from a random ass line in this fic by @muwapsturniolo. Inspiration comes from the randomest things lmao. ALSO HAPPY VALENTINE'S HOESSS (lil late but whatever)

Warnings: SmUt, MATT THE MUNCH, oral (fem receiving), fingering, swearing, overstimulation, PAIN KINK MATT POV: Reader Summary: Matt wants a little valentine's day treat...

He ate her out until his jaw was sore...

My fingers ached from gripping his hair so hard.

Matt had been eating me out for... I don't even know how long. All that I know is that he'd been starving for his, quote un-quote, "Valentine's treat."

"C'mon baby, pleassee? Consider it your valentine's treat to me."

He had started off slow, with gentle licks and small kisses that relaxed me and my core instantly. Small shivers ran down my spine, goosebumps rising on my skin as I felt his locks slide across my hand. His hands joined soon after, holding my thighs apart with a slightly bruising grip for more of his my satisfaction.

But the small licks turned into drawn-out ones, and the kisses turned into sucking. As soon as his tongue made contact with my slick entrance with enough force to make me jump, I knew I was done for.

Matt had made sure to keep track of the amount of times I came, and he did this by pushing another finger in every time I did. Now we're up to three.

"Fuck- can't-" A small glance downwards shows me his proud smirk. Fucker loved his overstimulation. Whether it was giving or receiving, he'd take it anyday over 'normal' finishing. And I thought he'd be 100% vanilla.

One particular curl of his fingers caused me to cry out his name, tears beginning to gather in the corner of my eyes. My hands are completely tangled in his hair, pulling so hard he almost made me stop. Except he didn't want me to.

No, Matt liked the pain.

He liked how it showed him how good I felt. He liked how the vibrations from his moans caused mine to triple in volume (TRIPLET REFERENCE????). He liked feeling his strands get tugged, the tiny pricks on his scalp heightening the whole experience.

But then there's the other pain he's starting feel.

A dull ache in his jaw.

The repeated motions of his mouth working against me caused the muscle to strain a little. (dude it's 3am plz dont judge the truthfulness of this statement thank yew)

He'd thought about stopping, managing the soreness before it got too much, but he also didn't want to.

This man's pain kink was crazy.

So all of this together, my moans, taste, fingers grabbing at his hair, and his jaw hurting, was making him see stars.

His face burrows deeper in between my thighs, worshipping and drinking like I was the fountain of youth.

I'm crying out, back arching against the bed while simultaneously pushing him away and pulling him closer.

He keeps moving his fingers in and out, lapping at my cunt like he's been thirsty for decades. His tongue is working wonders, enveloping me like a warm hug. A warm, wet, and sticky hug.

And, for the 4th time, I come.

He swallows it all, not wasting a single drop. His red lips and chin are glistening with my essence as he pants. My moans die down to whimpers, relishing in the post-orgasmic bliss.

I sigh in relief, just starting to relax. But then my eyes snap fully open and a shriek is ripped from my throat when he adds all 4 fingers together.

He grins, watching my face contort in a mix of pleasure and slight pain. This man and pain...

"You didn't think we were done yet, did you baby?"

TL: @hearts4werka @stvrnzcherries @spaghettislut1 @pvssychicken @snowysosturn @sllutty-sturniolo @sturnmeovr @courta13 @shadowthesim237 @scorpio1205 @chrepsi dividers by @bernardsbendystraws <3 -Ropitipop 👁👅👁

[drdemonprince]

I have a theory about weed tolerance that if you don't have at least a little bit of tolerance built up you can't use the drug as effectively bc there aren't as many levels of high available to you.

like, if one puff gets you to a 6/10 highness then you can't ever use the experiences in levels 1-5

this probably won't help, but idk, maybe if you can value the whole spectrum of weed experience it'll let you shape the restrictions in a way that serve you more? or whatever irdk

that sounds rough tho gl

this is absolutely true. when i was first getting into using weed more regularly a few years ago I would be blasted off all day from whatever I took and found it pretty hard to function in public or do most things. I usually also had a weed hangover the next day and would still be high. It was kind of zero to 100 there. once I got to the point where I could kind of control myself and be more self-aware and social while high, I was really happy with using the drug and started using it a little bit more. but then I got to noticing that an edible would actually stop working after several hours rather than leave me fucked up all day, and that freaked me out. but, you know, 2 days ago I was feeling super stressed and I got home rather late and normally I wouldn't have used weed then, because I would have told myself that it was too late in the evening and that it would have been a waste of a high to smoke and then shortly after go to bed. but that's not really true anymore. there are gradients of Highness for me. so I took a little bit of a one hitter, felt a lot more relaxed but still pretty lucid, and went to bed feeling amazing and woke up so much more relaxed. I'm afraid of getting to the point where I need a ton of weed to even feel the least bit high but it's nice to be able to regulate the high quite a bit

[randomreadingtimewithtsuki]

I SAID I’D BE BACK FOR SECONDS AND NOW I AM!

Another Dr. Stone request if you will~

How do you think the wise generals (+Tsukasa) would react to their partner getting a serous injury or seeing their partner having a near death experience (kinda like Ginro during treasure island where they have to be petrified to be saved maybe?)

😋

Hello! Thank you for coming by again!

I hope this is of liking, please let me know what you think!

TW: Mentions of injury and blood.

Tsuki's note: Children, DO NOT move anyone that has been injured or tht has fainted. Call for help first, then tend to the person ( CPR, Pressure, etc...), but do not move them!! you could complicate their situation.

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

Gen

Poor boy freaked out.

He saw your blood running, pooling around you.

He was dying to know what happened, why you were so terribly hurt.

He didn't really know what to do. Hold you? Hug you? Call someone?

Thankfully Senku thought fast and decided to petrify you to rescue you.

He sternly told Gen the details will have to come later, you saving you came first.

Gen had his heart in his mouth.

He couldn't hold your hand while you were being petrified.

But he could talk to you sweetly.

Well, you couldn't be depetrified yet. It had to take a few days to make sure you were fully healed.

While you were a stone Gen would talk to you daily, very briefly.

He also requested Yuzuriha to make your clothes and already have you dressed.

As soon as you were Revived, he hugged you tightly

Saying over and over again how worried he was and how glad he was to have you back.

After this sweet reunion, it was time to fill in the team with the details of how you ended up busted.

Gen would be very anxious if you had to go somewhere dangerous again.

he would try to convince you to stay, but he wouldn't push it too much, he knows everyone has their own roles on the kingdom of science.

Senku

Senku looked calm. He just looked like it.

When he realized you bought time for him and got hurt in the process, his heart sank.

But he had to deal with the issue at hand.

When he was done with the biggest issue, he went to your aid.

You were bleeding like crazy.

He didn't show it, but he was freaking out.

He knew one option would be to petrify you or try to suture you.

Petrifying was the best option - it had less risk of infections and complications.

So a statue you became.

Before you did become a statue, Senku you reassured you would be fine. After all you did this with Ryusui and Tsukasa so, you would be ok too.

You just needed a couple of days to be sure you would be 100% ok.

He didn't need to request Yuzuriha to make new clothes for you, she already knew what to do.

When you came back, Senku had a glint of relieve and happiness in his eyes.

If you chose to hug him, he would hug you too. If not, then he would just pat your head and say " Welcome back, you idiot".

Senku wouldn't mind if you went back doing dangerous things, but he would double check to see if you are ok.

Ryusui

Ryusui didn't quite notice the exact moment you got hurt - he himself was busy trying not to die too.

As soon as a little bit of safety was regained, he searched for you. Scanned the whole area with his eyes.

When he saw you, badly hurt and bleeding a lot, he panicked.

He dashes towards you, gently placing a hand on your shoulder, but he did not let transpire how worried he was.

He held a serious, yet calm expression and asked Francois to find help for you.

He stayed by your side through the whole decision making of petrifying you.

He agreed it was the option.

Ryusui reassured you would be fine, after all, he was too! Just trust the process and Senku.

He promised to give/do whatever you wanted once you healed up.

As soon as you became a statue again, Ryusui let his bravado down. He was worried sick.

He asked Yuzuriha to make you fancy clothes.

He also came by to see you for the short days you had to stay like that to heal.

Once you were broken free, the first thing you heard was his laugh and his fingers snapping.

He hugged tightly, but gently.

From then onwards he made to keep an eye on you or ask Francois to do so.

Chrome

Another poor boy that would panic a lot.

When he found you hurt, on the floor, he began to cry.

You were trying to tell him you would be ok.

He asked Kohaku to grabs Senku or anyone to help you.

He didn't left your side for anything.

Upon Senku's arrival, it was decided you would be petrified again.

Chrome was mumbling if this was the only way and well, it's not but it is the safest route.

He wanted to hold your hand while you were in the medusa range, but he couldn't.

So he kept loudly saying you would be ok while crying.

Ruri and Yuzuriha fetched you some clothes to dress your statue.

Chrome would talk to you about the days event. And always promise to fill you in again once you started moving.

When you are revived, He hugged you so tightly and so abruptly you fell backwards.

He was crying again, but this time out of relief.

You couldn't help smile at this fool.

After his he became very wary of letting you go on your own to unknown places.

Ukyo

Ukyo saw the moment you were hit.

He immediately ran to you while calling your name.

He didn't waste a second to seek for help.

From the looks of your injury you would probably need to be petrified.

Ukyo stayed by your side the whole time, having a worried, yet calm expression.

He tried his best to reassure you you would be fine.

After you became a statue again, he kindly asked Yuzuriha to make some clothes for you.

He would come by to see you and talk to you a bit.

Counting down out loud how long it would take to have you back.

Once you were revived, he hugged you tightly and gave a big sigh of relief.

He would ask you to be more careful next time and he would make sure to have you in his sight, so he could shoot any danger that could harm you.

Tsukasa

He didn't quite see when you got hurt.

Much like Ryusui, he was also trying to stay alive and Tsukasa is usually in the front lines.

After the danger was gone the first thing he did was look for you.

When he found you hurt, He kneeled next to you, gently helping you up and seeing your wound.

He would pick you up ( if your wound allowed it) and carry you to Senku.

Tsukasa would hold your hand as your injury was being check, surprisingly he wasn't holding too strongly, it was very gentle.

When it was decided it would be best to petrify you, he reassured you would be ok. After he was revived like that too.

He promised he would be next to you when you woke up and he smiled.

Not once Tsukasa showed how worried and angry he was. No, not at you, at himself and whoever laid hands on you.

Once you became a statue, he asked Yuzuriha a favor to make you new clothes.

Tsukasa would come by your statue and smile. He didn't speak much to you, he just did a promise to find who hurt.

Once you are back, he holds you by your shoulders asking how you feel, before hugging you.

After this, he makes sure you are safe or with a team that can keep you safe.

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

Thank you for reading!

[cupidkay-666]

“Valentine’s Day”

Tw: cnc, knifeplay, bondage, kidnapping, under the influence with consent, nipple play, etc.

“Hey, you” your phone lit small shadows around your room. Ugh. Well. Maybe, this one is the one. You thought as you swiped open the dating app. “Hey! What’s up?” You responded. That’s where this all started. A stupid fucking dating app. You grin as conversation takes over all your free time. Weeks go by like this, spending all your time talking to him. His profile paints him as Prince Charming, his pictures show a kind smile, deep eyes, and dimples. The sweetest face you’d ever seen. Guess what? Prince Charming doesn’t fucking exist. Obviously you’re naive. You was in complete shock when the day before Valentine’s, he cancels the date you two had planned. To finally meet. To share a romantic picture perfect Valentine’s evening. Your anger surpasses your judgement, surpasses the excuse he gave, surpasses all except typing out a message to let him know he fucking sucks.

“Happy fucking Valentine’s Day, you Jackass” is all you text him back before ignoring his many messages. Fuck him. And fuck Valentine’s Day.

You ignore him for hours. Only one message really catches your attention, but you blow it off. You look at the message once more “I’ll give you a happy Valentine’s Day you ungrateful bitch” and *click* , you turn your phone off. Whatever. You fling the phone on the charger and crawl into bed. You struggle to fall asleep, but once you do, you’re out cold. You wake the next morning and roll your eyes before throwing a pillow on your face. Great. It’s finally Valentine’s Day. The most loving day of the year. What a joke.

You finally get out of bed around lunchtime , and decide fuck it. You’ll take yourself out. Who needs a man to have fun. You take your time, showering, doing your makeup. Curling your hair. Picking out the skankiest outfit you can find, perfect. Once your finished getting dressed you look at the clock, fuck it’s already 6pm. You throw on some lip gloss and run out the door to your car. You head to the fullest bar in town. You aren’t exactly sure where the time goes. Before you know it, it’s 9pm and you have no clue how much you’ve had to drink, or who this random ass man is whose dancing with you. It’s probably time to get home. You stumble off the dance floor. Out to the parking garage. You spot your car and smile in relief,” God my bed sounds like the perfect spot to be right now.”, you think to yourself. Just as you go to grab the door handle to your car, something is over your mouth and nose, then everything goes black. Time along with everything disappears.

When you come to, your home in your bedroom. This feels unreal, like a fever dream. What’s real and what’s not?? You look down to notice your are only in your red bra and panties, tied and bound. Fuck, ok I guess moving is not an option. Your eyes are brimmed with panic and fright. “Hello there sweetheart, I saw you leaving the bar, all alone, and…. Y’a know, something about that wasn’t right. So, i figured. The hell with it, I would come keep you company. “ a deep voice was coming from the corner of your room. You went to speak but only drooling mumbles came. You moved your mouth around the gag ball, but it was no use, you couldn’t move it. “Sorry about that darling, I can’t take the chance of anyone hearing you possibly say things. Things you won’t mean when we are done” the deep voice came into view as it spoke. Or should you say, he, came into view. His face was masked but his figure was 100% male, and big, tall, and strong. “Look, I just wanna take this nice and easy. Just let me do what I need to do and this can all be over soon, does that sound ok sweet thing? “, he cooed at you. You cried softly while trying to keep your composure, well keep it the best you can. He walked towards you, you heard a click of a knife but slammed your eyes shut and tried to ignore everything around you.

“Sorry, should’ve gotten rid of these already but I must’ve forgotten… no matter, easy problem to fix.”, he said as he took the blade up the sides of your panties, cutting them from your body. He did the same up the middle of the bra. Exposing you completely to him. You were laying on your back, arms tied together in front of you, as well your legs were tied together. His hands traced from the bottom of your body, up. Until he had his fingers curled around your neck. “You’re so fucking beautiful right now, crying and exposed. All for me…” he softly spoke, to you… or maybe just to himself. His other hand played lightly around your nipples, until he lifted his mask just enough for his mouth to be exposed and started to lick and suck on your exposed buds. You tried turning your head away from him but his hand around your neck wouldn’t let you. You could feel him smirking as he overpowered you. His spare hand made its way between your legs, you could feel him moan as he reached your core…… you was wet for him, for this stranger. “I knew you was going to enjoy yourself..” he said as he began to lift your tied legs up in the air.

You started to panic alittle looking at him as he started to unzip his pants. Pulling his cock out pumping it as your legs rested up the length of his body. He used his hands to spread you open as he teased your entry with his tip. You was so far gone you couldn’t even protest anymore. “You might feel a slight stretch princess, be good for me, take it for me, ok, come on now..” he praised at you as he started to press his full cock into you. Stretching you out even more, pushing your tied legs closer to your head as he bent you in half, and stretched your lower half in two. “Fuck I’d love to take my time, but I can’t this time. I just need this..” he started to huff as he picked up his pace. He started to fuck into you at a speed that brought fresh tears to your eyes. You was screaming through the ball gag. Unable to hold on to that last bit of sanity. His was breaking you in. Absolutely destroying your hole, like you was nothing. You get close as his thumb slides around and works on your clit. Fuck it, your close. You can’t stop yourself. You need this. You need something. You see stars and scream around the ball gag as you cream around this strangers cock. He’s not far behind you. His thrust become sloppy, as he begins to groan your name… wait how does he know your name. He stutters as he paints your insides. He breathes heavily just sitting in you for awhile. Before pulling his mask off, your eyes widen as you take him his completely recognizable face. Then he speaks. “I told you I would give you a happy fucking Valentine’s Day…although you don’t look so ungrateful now..”

[etahpots]

ok. race play. we're all 1. so why not play with fantasy as long as one is capable of finding happiness without emotional attachment to words.

all comes down to consent and what TWO GROWN ADULTS are into between themselves without harming any others that are not into/interested in such things.

now scat, no fkn ty, mah, there is shit wine in japan from baby shit. there is shit therapy where they replace shit within individuals to treat mental/physical/emotional health problems. look into that if you don't believe 1. guess someone with super healthy eating/being habits may be shitting out some super healthy shit for those that don't eat/live/be like such. and maybe visa versa, maybe a lil unhealthy shit is good for someone so healthy just to learn to adapt/evolve/improve/whatever. who the fk knows what reality might be or might not be without testing/verification? age play = as long as it is two grown adults and there are not children involevd/listening/whatever. again back to children not belonging on the internet without 100% parental oversight. it's too dangerous. there's too many free ideas floating about that could harm/develop an undeveloped mind/consciousness/existence/child. water = don't care, isn't that pee mostly? who cares. maintain explicit consent always. incest. consent. idc who calls me mommy or daddy or bro or sis or what the f ever as long as they are grown adults and playing in fantasy, not pretending to be actual reality. actual reality needs therapy. fantasy, who cares as no physical harm between others. as long as no children are being conditioned to ass-ume such things are necessary/ideal/whatever. adults deserve freedumb$ in any/all actions that do zero physical harm. children deserve safe/supportive environments and not have access to places that could harm them long term just because their brains/emotions/imaginations are not yet fully developed by empathy/wisdom/understanding. cnc/lolita/whatever. between adults fantasy is fine. involving any children is unethical/counterproductive/abusive/manipulative/controlling/etc. adults can fantasize whatever, make sure one is actually an adult and not living out a fantasy of consenting to something/anything because one cannot imagine any other livable alternative. consent. education/empowerment/emancipation. internet is here. it is almost free for anyone/everyone. use it to educate/empower/emancipate grown fkn adults online/offline. keep kids off of adult only areas.

Okay, one of these kinks/fetishes gotta go. Which one is it?

Race play

Coprophilia (scat)

Age Play

Watersports

Incest

CNC

Loli/shota

None of these

[prettyupsetnerd]

If you’re still doing doodle requests, maybe one of the moms? (Season 1 or 2 (including Marco))

cassandra swift the girlboss that you are

[vincentsleftear]

I completely understand the desire to discuss the apparent taivan erasure within the Yellowjackets fandom but I am sooo tired of seeing people chalk it up to those two women being “butch”.

Like. I understand the sentiment but come on guys 😭. THESE are your “butches” ?!

fellas is it butch to wear a jacket when it’s cold outside?

[wormzandgutz]

Simulacrums of luck day 1: RESUSCITATION

[turtleblogatlast]

Mikey and Leo episode centered around Mikey wanting to push Leo and Draxum together since Leo’s the most reluctant to give Draxum any grace (for good reason!) But, thinking on the spot, Leo says he’s gotta go do something for Hueso and “just can’t hang out right now 😔” (yes, he says the emoji out loud.)

Mikey calls his bluff and now the three of them (Mikey having grabbed a weary Draxum along) go to Hueso’s to find that yes, he actually does have a job for him. Said job asks for Leo to go with Hueso to deliver multiple pizzas to this giant yokai quite a distance away, and Hueso figured it would probably go better with Leo’s help (emphasis on probably.)

Well, Mikey decides that this would be a great bonding opportunity for them and basically invites he and Draxum along. Unfortunately for Leo, Hueso doesn’t care enough to wave away more help, though he does side-eye the wanted criminal Baron Draxum coming with them. But who is he to judge? (This choice has consequences.)

The journey goes about as terribly as you’d expect, but at least the pizzas get delivered on time.

[filurig]

– this whole - the dancing, singing, pole...raising. it is all rather ridiculous... 'midsummer'. i fail to... see the point of this human... invention. for once.

arvo's words were slurred, uneven - as if merely letting them past his lips was a great effort... this was, no doubt, influenced by the drink in his hand, resting on his stomach. folke, who had, in fact, brewed the alcohol that they were drinking, giggled - not exactly sober himself.

– i'm... the only human here, arvo. remember...

– no kraksi, or crakam, in sartrill, raises a huge, leafy pole for long summer days, that much i know.

– okay, haha - the pole thing... the pole thing is entirely human, probably. but... gullmar - tomtar, celebrate 'solvarvir' around the same time... trolls celebrate, uh... oh, curses, i'll butcher it... 'rawr - owa'... rawrr - oh wra? rawr... haha!

arvo opened one of his eyes slowly, fighting against some kind of weight that has, somehow, been set upon them - in order to look at the human beside him, still struggling to pronounce the foreign word correctly. a corner of the basilisk's lips twitched upwards.

– hm. nevermind what i said. there is a certain element of entertainment present, i suppose...

[atalienart]

"Wysoki i szczupły, K. był kwintesencją elegancji, od nienagannego ubioru, szytego według najnowszej mody, przez starannie ułożone, piaskowe włosy, po sposób w jaki się trzymał."

[happyk44]

Jason who immediately loses respect for people who don't own up to their mistakes vs Annabeth who would rather die than admit she made a mistake

[egg-baby-official]

Rotating timeskip collector design in my brain