#or in this case Wc if it seems especially important so they get it faster :3)

[slenderofthewildcard]

*You have been sent a piece of junk mail, an advertisement for the 'Peacock Club'.

The front reads, "Drown your sorrows and gamble your soul!"

(If) you flip it over, (then) the back reads "That second bit was a joke. But come down anyway. anyone's welcome if they have a membership card."*

× @slender-clubowner

.............why the f@#$ did Dahl' send over the f@#$ing junk mail???

So called 'competition' or some shit...

[mattsvn]

CHANCE BALL LOVE!

Pairing: Ushijima Wakatoshi x gn!reader

Genre: Meet ugly! strangers to lovers! Getting hit in the head with a volleyball!

Warnings: Blood, head injury, concussion, did I mention getting hit in the head with a volleyball? Food hehe, that's all.

WC: 2.4K

Summary: After being hit with a volleyball by the ace and U19 athlete, Ushijima Wakatoshi, you find yourself laying in the nurse's office, with a bag of ice on your head and a boy apologizing every two minutes for that terrible accident. As the times goes by, you realize that not only you were hit by a ball, but by destiny, and more important, love.

A/N: I'm so excited for this piece! This is a collab for HQHQ (now Anilysium!) The masterlist is here! I hope you like this piece! Reblogs are appreciated!

Life is made up of 90% causality and 10% coincidence.

That was what your mother used to say, with her hands covered with flour up to her elbows, while she prepared one of those delicious desserts. Possibly as a result of all her years perfecting her technique as a pastry chef, but, as in that, she considered that everything had to be planned, measured, and calculated.

On the other hand, your father was always talking about how fate made everything line up perfectly for things in his life to come in abundance, he would happily tell about the coincidences in his life, although the answer was always the same, a debate between the two of them as to what was the truth.

A skeptical pastry chef and a dreamy lawyer, a match made in heaven.

Whatever it had been, causality or causality, you never thought a hit of luck would be so...literal.

It was unusual for you to be in Shiratorizawa's volleyball gymnasium, if you had managed to get into such a prestigious high school it was because of the impeccable grades you always had, sports were not a priority.

You weren't afraid of balls, but, the way everyone was spiking the ball was about to cause you a headache, especially Ushijima Wakatoshi, the school's ace, one of the best athletes in the country.

"Why are we here, again?" you asked, your gaze wandering between the various players and the sound of balls hitting everywhere making the conversation feel distorted.

"Because they" one pointed out, to the rest of the girls looking around the court excitedly "want to see Semi Eita, the pretty boy with the grey hair" she gestured to the boy in the corner, slamming the ball to the ground unaware that they were watching.

"Ah" you replied, somewhat bored, grabbing your backpack and standing up. "Good luck with that, I have to get home early" you said, waving goodbye to everyone.

To leave, or at least, to do it in a faster way, the door that led out of the building, and through which you had to go through the court, was the best option, as it took longer to take the way inside the corridors. The only option as you made your way down the bleachers.

The only thing you heard, with your eyes glued to the ground, trying to go completely unnoticed was a "WATCH OUT!" that made you look up before you saw nothing but darkness.

"I don't know, Wakatoshi-kun, looks like you did kill her" a voice was heard in the distance, the light irritating your eyes if you tried to open them. Still, only because of your stubbornness, you tried to get up without anyone else's help.

"I don't think it's best if you stand up now" you heard a deeper voice, but you didn't know exactly where it was coming from.

"I'm fine" you whispered, placing a hand on where you assumed you had been hit with the volleyball, feeling a warm liquid staining it. It wasn't possible that a spike had cracked your forehead open, right?

Right?

"I'm fine, I have to go" as you stood up, opening your eyes, everything was spinning. An arm went around your shoulders, stopping you from falling back to the ground, firm, but at the same time gentle.

"You need to go to the infirmary, you're bleeding" the voice now seemed to be closer, a little more stable, but, no way did you feel you could even move without throwing up or passing out again, what the fuck had that hit been? Could someone hit someone that hard just with a serve?

The answer was yes, and the name, Ushijima Wakatoshi.

You barely felt it when, just like that, he lifted you off the ground, although it seemed that your body felt it. A piece of something, probably cloth or gauze stopped the bleeding. You kept repeating that at least they let you walk, that you were okay, even though, clearly, you had the symptoms of a concussion.

"Are you all right, can you tell me where you are?" questioned Ushijima, entering a room. You had finally managed to open your eyes and recover from the dizziness.

"I'm fine, we're at the high school" you whispered, looking at Ushijima for the first time.

Even if you had gone to games before, you had never seen that look on Wakatoshi's face, a mixture of fear and worry, accompanied by his pale face and a barely noticeable bloodstain on his shirt.

"You can wait outside, dear boy," said the nurse, slightly terrified by what had happened.

A couple of hours passed before they managed to let you go, after calling your parents and making sure you didn't leave the building unless you were accompanied. You didn't need stitches, and that was a huge plus, but still, you left the infirmary with a gauze pad on your forehead, some candy, and a chance to take the rest of the week off to rest, which wasn't such a bad outcome.

You closed the door behind you, looking sideways at Wakatoshi on the floor, who got up almost immediately, still looking scared, even his gaze lingered for a few seconds on the patch on your forehead, which reminded him of the fact that he had accidentally hit you with a volleyball while practicing his serves.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, looking disheveled, and as if he had done nothing more than wait in the hallway until everything was in order.

"Oh, don't worry, Ushijima-san, I'm fine" you assured, but it didn't seem to be enough for him.

"I'm so sorry, let me take you home to be sure you arrive safely" he asked, with his hands behind his back and his head slightly bent down, like a child discovered stealing the candy from the counter.

"My parents are here to take me home, don't worry" you assured, glancing sideways at the door, somewhat far away. "You can walk me to the car, if you like."

"Of course" he nodded, walking beside you. Up close he looked even taller than he was, his expression calm and his gaze fixed straight ahead, though, he seemed to have a doubt that would leave his lips at any moment "Would you allow me to walk you to school tomorrow?"

You looked at him with raised eyebrows, somehow, the sound of just both of your footsteps in the hallway was comforting, soothing. It wasn't awkward, or uncomfortable. Ushijma didn't believe in awkward silences, because to him actions said more than words, and, that a question shouldn't be answered right away. So, the way to the entrance was nothing more than waiting for an honest, and safe, answer.

"I got permission to miss classes for the rest of the week, in case the concussion gets complicated, because I have to rest" you began, letting again the calm silence take center stage for a couple of seconds. "Then I won't be back until Monday, but maybe you can come for dinner tomorrow?"

"If you accept that as my apology for hurting you, then by all means" he took the door, allowing you to leave before him, there was still a bit of a walk to the main entrance. "Although, I would like to cook"

"Oh, I didn't know you cooked," you smiled, looking up at him. Ushijima looked down, and, you could swear he was smiling too. "If that's what you prefer, I'd love to."

The rest of the walk was quiet, and calm. Ushijima said goodbye to you after introducing himself to your parents, and apologizing again. In the rearview mirror you saw him standing there, waiting until he didn't see the car to go home.

He was really worried, and it would probably take him a few days to stop being scared about what had just happened. He was even willing to be scolded by the coach for missing two days of practice, just to make sure everything was in order.

Likewise, even if it would be a whole day before you saw Ushijima, he decided to call you just before he went to bed. And at lunchtime, because doing it earlier would surely have woken you up. He didn't talk too much, he let you talk about how annoying the doctors at the hospital had been when you went to check that everything was okay, and all the boring time you spent there.

He called back as soon as he got out of school, to make sure the details of the dinner were ready, he would bring the food, and some dessert, and, you would bring the drinks. You had to convince him though, otherwise he would have bought everything, he would have even brought plates and silverware from his own house.

Wakatoshi took the job of bringing the food seriously, as much as he could buy anything on the way home, he decided to make something himself. The menu was simple, yakisoba, yukari rice balls with an egg on top of each dish. As for dessert, he decided not to risk it, and preferred to buy those box cakes that had been quite popular lately, and, some condensed milk truffles that Tendou gave him as a gift as, he assured, you would love them.

Your parents could be quite reluctant to invite a boy to the house, but, after proposing the idea that you could clean up the picnic table you had in the backyard, where there was a space convenient enough for them to peek in just a little to feel safe, they agreed almost immediately.

During the afternoon, the question you wanted to ignore came out of nowhere, could that be considered a date, and should you dress for the occasion? It didn't seem like anything would match a forehead injury, or that anything would hide it. The result ended up being something you would wear if you were going out with friends, simple, and appropriate for the sunny day out.

Ushijima arrived exactly at the appointed time, and, reluctantly from your parents, you opened the door without them intruding. Looking at him, you failed to understand the nervous feeling that traveled from your heart to the tips of your fingers, making them tremble. Standing with a bag in his left hand, his hair slightly tousled and a bouquet of flowers in the other. Yet another gesture of apology, right?

"Hi, I brought some flowers" he pointed out, extending them. Your hand gently brushing his as you took them, white roses with green accents that made the bouquet look incredibly elegant.

"I already told you that you didn't have to keep apologizing, Ushijima" you mentioned, taking the flowers. "We'll eat outside then you don't need to take off your shoes, but let me go get a vase."

"You look good today" he spoke out of nowhere, making you look at him even though you were already halfway down the aisle. "You look good in those clothes" he seemed to be trying to smile, but you weren't sure. You smiled anyway, grateful for the compliment.

You returned with the bouquet, which would now serve as a decoration for the picnic. You could feel the intense gaze of your parents even if they tried to hide when they peeked, or, according to them, "watched" that everything was in order.

"Are you feeling better then?" he asked, looking at how simply decorated the picnic table was but somehow looked incredibly cozy, with perfect tree shade.

As was now usual, Wakatoshi didn't talk more than usual, at least not at first, he wanted to hear about how you were feeling, and how many days you would be out of school, although you assured him that you would be back to your activities by next Monday, and that, your friends would take care of sending you the homework you needed. Then the questions about him began.

You learned a lot, how he learned to play volleyball at a young age, his interest in cooking but his almost zero ability to make desserts. My mother could make some, you laughed, drinking some cranberry juice in a wine glass, your father's idea. He told you about his new interest in plants, and his father's work out of the country. Even some good anecdotes about the volleyball team.

Dessert was something completely different, by that time, she started to excitedly explain his last game, and what it was like to be in the Olympics. Although it wasn't as noticeable, you could tell in the way his lips curved into a slight smile as he tried to find the right words to define how he felt.

Reluctantly, and after offering to do the dishes, you said no, keeping the bento boxes with the promise that you would bring lunch on Monday for both of you, and now a wide smile on his face, even when he had to go home.

The following Monday came terribly slow, with the only thing that made it better being that Ushijima had not stopped her constant calls, the day possibly delayed by dark clouds heralding torrential rain.

"You don't have to keep apologizing anymore, look, even the wound has healed" you said, to Ushijima who was standing at the entrance, now with a box of the truffles you had liked so much, and which he had now made.

"I know. But I'd really like to walk with you at school" he smiled. "If you'll let me.

"I'd love to."

Life is made up of 80% causality and 20% chance, and, although you wouldn't want to repeat the literal hit of luck you received, you hadn't wanted it any other way.

Going to the gym because your friends wanted to see a cute boy on the volleyball team, having to leave early because you had things to do at home, leaving through the door you had to walk through on the court, getting hit in the head with a volleyball, only to end up walking to school with him, fingers barely brushing, a tender kiss on the cheek before he left.

Eating now inside the house, holding hands, a kiss on the corner of the lips. Waiting in the bleachers for practice to end, a number one jacket covering you from the rain.

The worst way to get to know each other, and, somehow, it seemed you were made for one another.

[motherjoel]

hot cocoa (spencer reid x reader)

summary: spencer accidentally spills some of penelopes famous hot cocoa onto a beautiful stranger in the airport (who just so happens to be sitting next to him on the plane)

a/n: this one takes place during the holidays but its not all about xmas! also i tried to make this gender neutral and i think it is but if i missed something let me know

wc: 2.2k

warnings/includes: reader curses a lot & has flight anxiety, spencer is awkward and sweet

-

Spencer was rarely late- even when he had food poisoning from some bad chinese food, he made it into work with time to spare. Sure, he might have turned green at the sight of the evidence board, but he even made it to the trash can in time. His punctuality had come into question today, however, as he booked it to the boarding area. I shouldn’t have let Garcia distract me, he thought back to the holiday party at the office. Well, surprise party- they had all returned from a case sore and exhausted, but of course Penelope had baked an entire array of cookies and decorated the office to the brim. He stayed for one cup of hot cocoa, which turned into three, and before he knew it, his flight was an hour away. With his travel mug filled with cocoa in hand, he awkwardly ran through the airport to catch his flight home to Vegas.

Spencer never considered himself a coordinated person- sure, he had to have a certain level of finesse to be an FBI agent, but if he wasn’t a genius he never would have passed the physical. So when he found himself tripping over his own feet in the middle of an airport, he wasn’t as much surprised as he was perturbed. That annoyance soon shifted into pure embarrassment when he looked up to see you- the ethereal being he had just spilled Penelope’s famous hot cocoa onto. The beautiful person whose “I <3 DC” sweatshirt was now stained an unattractive shade of brown. His mind went completely blank in that moment, the apology he had wished to conjure up lying dead on his tongue. As he began to stammer in shock he stopped in his tracks- you were laughing. A noise Spencer swears could find world peace and end world hunger. A voice that finally encouraged Spencer to find his own.

“I am so sorry,” he apologized, hands frantically flying to his personal pack of tissues he kept in his bag. You continued to laugh, doubled over as you accepted the wad of tissues.

“Oh, it's okay,” you said, taking a deep breath. “God, I definitely seem insane. Sorry, I’ve just been having one hell of a shitty day,” you began to explain, confusing Spencer even more. “So my boyfriend breaks up with me the morning of my flight across the country, which I’m running a bit late for,” you continued, glancing at your watch. “But I have to go home for the holidays of course so I pack my shit and head out anyway, but I forget a sweatshirt! I’m freezing cold so I buy this overpriced ugly thing,” you gestured to your now-stained sweatshirt. “Only for you to spill your…” you sniffed the mess, “hot cocoa?” you questioned, Spencer nodded frantically, “all over it. I guess that's one way of warming up,” you huffed. 

“Wow, I- um, I don’t really know what to say. I’m really sorry about your day being bad. And for spilling my drink on you, of course, um,” he reached into his suitcase and pulled out his backup cardigan. “Here, take this,” he said, almost shoving the knitwear into your hands. “Please, it’s the least I can do,” he said, unintentionally flashing what Prentiss called his “puppy dog eyes.” He exhaled in relief as you grabbed the sweater from him, sliding off your stained hoodie and replacing it with his soft and coffee-scented cardigan. 

“Thanks. And I’m sorry for dumping my days' trauma on you, but I really do have a flight to catch, so,” you gestured towards the boarding area (which just so happened to be his designated boarding area). You rushed off to board the plane after giving him a tight-lipped smile and a soft wave, leaving him in a dazed state. Breaking out of his trance, he grabbed his suitcase and continued his beeline towards the plane. 

There was something about you that stuck with Spencer- although it may not have been your proudest moment, he was incredibly intrigued by you and the way you reacted to disaster. Spencer had seen his fair share of terrible coping mechanisms, but the way you laughed in the face of tragedy was something he admired- envied, almost. Envy wasn’t the right word for it, there were no negative connotations he associated with the way he felt about you. Perhaps it was too soon to tell.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped onto the plane, the anxiety of missing his flight finally lifted. Said anxiety was soon replaced by a new feeling that was ruled by a flutter in his chest, one that he had only experienced a few times in his life. This fluttery feeling was the result of seeing you planted in the seat directly next to the one written on his plane ticket. His breath caught in his throat as you looked up from the book in your hand, giving him a small wave. His eyes widened as he looked around, wondering if you were actually waving at him. You laughed and looked back down at your book, a soft smile rested on your lips. As Spencer got closer to his seat he could feel his heart rate picking up. You looked up from your book as he struggled slightly to lift his carryon into the overhead compartment. His cheeks heated up in embarrassment over the struggle, but he eventually managed to secure his carryon, taking a seat in 32 B. 

“So we meet again,” you smiled at the disheveled man next to you.

“So we do,” Spencer smiled and grabbed his copy of Les Miserables from his backpack- he lost track of how many times he had read it, but it was an easy plane read for him.

“I’m Y/N, by the way. Sorry, I probably should’ve introduced myself earlier after telling you my life story. I just didn’t expect to be sitting next to you,” you said with amusement.

“I’m Spencer, and no problem. Hows, um, the sweater?” he asked, trying to continue the conversation. Normally he’d be a quarter through his book by now, but you were a rare something that was more interesting to him than Victor Hugo. 

“It’s great! Cozier than my ‘I heart DC’ hoodie for sure,” you laughed and Spencer swore he heard angels singing.

“I’m glad, I felt really bad. Hot chocolate is actually a really difficult stain to remove because it has fat, sugar, tannins, and protein. It would take a lot of work to remove that stain, especially with the chocolate to milk ratio Penelope uses,” Spencer rambled, the embarrassment setting in the second he closed his mouth.

“Penelope?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“Oh, she's my coworker. She’s known for her hot chocolate and her cookies. Oh!” Spencer remembered the plastic bag of cookies Garcia had sent him home with. “Want one? They’re chocolate chip,” he said, grabbing the bag of cookies and holding it out to you.

“Sure,” you laughed, taking a bite of the surprisingly delicious cookie. “Oh. My. God. That is incredible! This Penelope person has a gift,” you laughed, finishing the cookie surprisingly fast.

“I’ll be sure to let her know,” Spencer smiled, taking a cookie for himself. A comfortable silence ensued as the two of you munched on your cookies, the plane almost done boarding.

“So, what brings you to Vegas?” you asked. Spencer was a little confused as to why you wanted to talk to him, but he decided not to question the anomaly.

“Oh, I’m visiting my mother for the holidays. I work at Quantico in Virginia so I don’t get to see her too often,” he shared, surprised at his willingness to be open.

“That’s nice! I’m kinda doing the same, except I am not returning to DC,” you sighed. Spencer felt his heart drop as he internally begged for you to elaborate, and as if reading his mind, you continued. “That boyfriend I mentioned earlier was kinda my only reason for moving here, and now that he's a cheating jackass- sorry, oversharing again, um, now that we broke up, I’ll probably just stay in Vegas,” you explained, opening the book in front of you and mindlessly flipping through the pages. He focused on the chipped nail polish painted on your bitten nails as you turned the pages, eyes moving to the title of the book.

“Le Petit Prince?” he asked, pointing at your book.

“Oh, yeah. I’m trying to teach myself some french so I’m reading this to get a little better,” you smiled before your eyes drifted down to the thick book in his lap. “You’re reading Les Mis?” you asked, slightly shocked at the french writing on the cover.

“Yeah, well it's my.... fourth, I think, time reading it. Well, in the original french,” he said, oblivious to his accidental brag.

“Damn, are you a genius or something?” you laughed, noticing the blank stare on Spencer’s face. “Wait. You are,” you pointed at him, your shock turning into joy.

“Well, technically, I am I guess,” he smiled awkwardly, trying not to flaunt his intelligence.

“That’s so cool! God, maybe if I was a genius I could get past the first chapter of this book,” you huffed, looking defeatedly at your book once again.

“May I ask, why are you learning French? It’s the fourth most important language behind Mandarin Chinese, Spanish and German. That’s just my opinion, of course,” he said, slightly flustered by the look on your face.

“Yeah, I guess it's not the most practical. But there's something so romantic about France, you know?” you asked and he nodded, blushing lightly. “I’ve always wanted to visit Paris, hell, maybe even live there. It’s stupid,” you laughed, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear.

“No, it’s not. It’s called the city of love for a reason,” he said with a tight-lipped smile. You were both silent for a moment before the flight attendants began their safety announcements and prepared for takeoff. Spencer noticed you stiffen as the engine started to rumble and the plane got faster. “Are you okay?” he asked as you shut your eyes tightly together.

“Yeah, yes, um. I just have really bad flight anxiety,” you confessed, eyes remaining closed. The plane lifted off the ground and you sucked in a deep breath, instinctively reaching over to grab Spencer's hand. All thoughts of germs and disease had completely left his mind at your touch- facts and logic meant nothing at this point if it meant you wouldn’t let go. “Could you just um, distract me?” you asked, peeking at him from the corner of your eye, hand still clutching his.

“Oh, yeah of course,” he said, thinking quickly for a distraction before grabbing the book from your lap and opening it to the first page. In perfect french, he began to read. “Lorsque j’avais six ans j’ai vu, une fois, une magnifique image…” he read for almost an hour before he felt your head relax on his shoulder, eyes closed. He continued to read for a bit longer before the lull of sleep pulled him under as well, your touch comforting him and providing safety.

Spencer woke a few hours later with a start to the seatbelt light beeping on. Gathering his bearings he looked to his left to see you already awake, looking at him with a smile.

“You’re cute when you sleep. Snore a bit, though,” you laughed and yawned, looking out the window. Spencer's heart rate picked up at your mussed hair and dazed expression. “Thank you for reading to me. I’m completely chill now,” you reassured him.

“Oh, no problem. Also, I’m not the only one who snores,” he quipped, a soft smirk on his lips.

“Hey, gimme a break! That was the most I’ve slept in days,” you defended.

“Believe it or not, me too,” Spencer realized, surprised that he slept more on an airplane than in his own bed. Maybe that difference was you.

“Looks like we’re almost landing,” you noticed, causing a pang in Spencer’s chest.

“Oh. Yeah, I guess so,” he acknowledged with a slight tone of disappointment.

“Hey. So this might sound crazy, but what if I gave you my number? And while you’re still in Vegas, maybe we can hang out? Sorry if this is too forward,” you cringed in embarrassment.

“No!” he started, eyes wide.

“Oh, okay. I shouldn’t have asked,” you immediately took back your statement.

“No! I mean, it's not too forward. I, uh would love to… hang out with you,” Spencer said, the words seeming unfamiliar on his tongue. The smile you gave him seemed to stop the earth for a few seconds (although Spencer knew this was scientifically impossible, something about you defied laws of science). 

The plane soon landed and numbers were exchanged, and one unexpected (but lovely) goodbye hug was given, and Spencer was floating. He couldn’t wait to tell his mom.

-

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taglist: @rigatonireid​, @goldenxreid, @aworldoffandoms, @moonshinerbynight, @averyhotchner

[thirstyforcharacters]

Hands (Obi-Wan Kenobi x Jedi! Reader)

Summary: You've never had a thing for hands until you started dating Obi-Wan. Then it became a bit of a problem.

Notes: Hello! This is my first attempt at smut, so I'm a little nervous about this. But, hopefully, you end up enjoying it! It's 1.5 k words, I got a little carried away... but I love me some Obi-Wan Kenobi, so I have absolutely no regrets lol. (no she/her pronouns, no y/n)

Warnings: smuttttt, 18+ only! a little degradation (but not much), vaginal fingering, Master Kink (oops)

WC: 1.5k

You had never really thought about hands being attractive before. You thought of them more as vessels for more important things, so to speak. They were to greet others with a handshake, lift a forkful of your favorite dish to your lips, or swing your lightsaber in graceful arcs while cutting down battle droids. They were functional, not sexual.

But then you started (secretly) dating Obi-Wan Kenobi. And suddenly, hands were the sexiest things on the planet. There were many times you would catch yourself staring at them; whether that was while he happened to be using his own lightsaber, wrapping them for a quick sparring match, making tea with them, and especially when your hands were linked together. You’ve memorized the calluses, ran your fingers over the softer palms, and pressed more kisses than you can count to his knuckles. And most importantly, he knows how to use them when you’re alone; whether that’s pinning your hands above your head, wrapping them around your throat, or using them to coax countless orgasms out of you before he was even truly inside of you.

But sometimes, your love of Obi-Wan’s hands can backfire on you, like it is right now. You’re supposed to be negotiating with the leaders of Ryloth, but all you can do is focus on Obi-Wan’s hands. His left is softly drumming on the table, which is his only tell that he is somewhat disinterested in the conversation occurring around him, and his right is fiddling with his holo, pulling up some information to show the planet’s figureheads. You were there to discuss protective measure for their people during the Clone Wars, but all you could think about is how Obi-Wan’s hands would feel running up and down your body right now, cupping your breasts and tweaking at your nipples, tracing teasing patterns into your thighs, and then slowly moving upward to finally-

“Are you alright, Master Jedi? You look awfully flushed,” one of the Twi’leks asked gently, “if you’re feeling ill, we can always resume the negotiations at a later time.”

You sat up immediately, flushing a little darker at being caught, “Oh, no, I’m fine. Sorry to worry you.”

The others at the table nodded and resumed their conversation, but Obi-Wan’s eyes were still on you. When you made eye contact, he quirked up a brow, as if to ask you if you really were okay. You smiled at him bashfully and nodded, but you knew he didn’t quite believe you. You tried to pay better attention, you really did. But all your mind could drift to is the possibilities of what could happen after the meeting. And how much better his hands would look winding around your waist instead of the goblet in front of him.

Finally, the negotiations had finished for the day, and you and Obi-Wan were led back to your shared quarters for the evening. You had removed your outer robe and obi and had removed your left book when Obi-Wan kneeled on the ground in front of you, gently cupping your face with concern in his eyes.

“Are you sure you’re alright, my love?”

You swallowed hard and nodded, “I’m fine, Obi, I promise.”

“You don’t seem like it, love,” he removed the boot that you hadn’t taken off already, “you’re still quite flushed.”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes were trained on his fingers removing the shoe from your foot. When you finally looked back up, he was smirking at you. You knew you were caught.

“I see. You’ve been concentrating on other things, have you?”

You nodded sheepishly, “It’s… all I could think about.”

You hated how small your voice sounded, but you couldn’t help being a little bit embarrassed by the fact that he had caught you. You had always had trouble asking for what you wanted, given that as a Jedi, you had never had sexual experience before you started dating Obi-Wan. You figured that he wold be the same way, but he put on a bit more of a dominant persona in the bedroom. Not that you were complaining, of course.

“Really?” his hand trailed up your leg teasingly, “and what exactly were you thinking about? I won’t know exactly what you want unless you tell me, love.”

“I-I was thinking about… about your hands…” you trailed off. He nodded for you to continue, “um, and about how good they make me feel.”

“Hmm, how good they make you feel? Does it feel good when I do this?”

His right hand rubbed circles into your thigh, and his left snuck underneath your tunic to massage your breast.

“Y-yes,” you stammered, somewhat bewildered by how gone you already were. But it was him. He always knew exactly what you needed, sometimes even before you did.

“Keep going, love. I still don’t know what you want.” His voice was almost mocking, but also dripping with lust. And you wanted to be the mop that sopped it up.

“I-I was thinking about how good it feels when you use them to-to hold me down. When they...they’re around my neck. When they’re inside of me.” You whispered the last part, still rather embarrassed to say such filthy things.

“Inside you where? Here?” he murmured, moving the hand massaging your breast to slide two of his fingers between your lips. You moaned softly and sucked on his fingers gratefully, but shook your head.

“Where then, darling? Where do you need me?” He removed his fingers so you could respond

“In-in my pussy, Master. Please.”

“Ah, so my pretty girl needs me to fuck her with my fingers? So filthy for me, thinking about getting finger-fucked when you’re supposed to be paying attention. Don’t know if you quite deserve it.” He drew back the hand that was on your clothed thigh.

You cried out in protest, “No! Please, Master, I’ll be good for you, I promise. Please.”

His smirk widened, “You always are, aren’t you, darling? Alright then, I’ll give you what you need.”

He stripped you down gently, worshipping every bit of your body with his hands and lips as new skin is revealed. Soon, you were nude and laying on the bed, legs spread wide open. Obi-Wan was shirtless, kneeling between your spread thighs. He had gone back to teasingly rubbing your thighs, which was making your already wet pussy even slicker.

“Please, Master. Need your fingers inside of me so bad.” All traces of shyness were gone from your voice now. Your neediness overpowered any embarrassment.

He leaned down and licked the shell of your ear, making you shiver.

“I know you do, love,” he whispered, sliding one of his fingers through your dripping folds, “so wet for me already, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes. Only for you.”

Seeming rather pleased with your reply, he slicked up his fingers with lube (you certainly weren’t questioning why he brought it with him at the moment, though he would tell you later that it was “just in case”), and finally pushed one inside of you.

You moaned in relief. You had been needing this almost all day, and you were finally getting it.

“Does my girl like it when I finger-fuck her, hmm?” he questioned, while crooking his finger inside of you.

“Yes, Master. I-I like it so much,” was your stammered reply.

“Good.” He rubbed his thumb over your clit suddenly, making you jump in both surprise and pleasure.

You glanced at his other hand, which was currently braced on the bed to give him more leverage.

He noticed you look, “Need that hand somewhere else, darling?”

“Yes, please, Master. Need it here,” you begged softly, gesturing to your throat.

He smirked, “Whatever my girl wants,” and simultaneously wrapped his free hand around your neck while adding a second finger in your pussy. You cried out in pleasure. You could already feel yourself getting close, though Obi-Wan tended to have a knack for having you cum faster than what you thought was possible. He knew exactly how to play with your body to have you writhing in seconds. It was absolutely intoxicating.

“Please, Master.”

He knew exactly what you were begging for. He scissored his fingers in you while rubbing your clit with renowned purpose.

“My girl is close, isn’t she? Wants to cum all over my fingers?”

“Yes,” you whined, “please!”

He winked at you, squeezed your throat tighter, and added a third finger.

Finally, you snapped. You were seeing stars as Obi-Wan coaxed your orgasm out of you, and continued to finger you through it to help you ride it out. You gently tapped his arm when you were finished, and he removed his hands, bringing the fingers coated in your release to his lips. You watched, entranced, as his tongue swirled around the digits, cleaning them of your release.

You smiled bashfully, “Thank you, Obi.”

He grinned, tracing your jaw with one of his fingers, “Of course, love. You know I’ll give you anything you need. But I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”

Your eyes widened. You were in for a long night.

[razorblade-eyes]

How Strong Can A Woman Get, Really?

“Men are just stronger than women. It’s just a fact.”

Well, is it now? This article aims to take a case with common misconceptions and facts regarding women’s ability to get strong and how strong they can get.

At a young age, I learned about a glorious (and a soon-to-be frustrating thing) called “weight class.” Man, did I love elementary school. I could bully the bullies, guys were all my size, and the playing fields leveled. Sports were a genuine co-ed experience, and I was ambivalent to being desired or seen as a conquest. I was an unapologetically feisty girl, able to pound the crap out of mean boys who made fun of a nerdy or overweight kid. I felt like a damn superhero.

Then, we all got older.

Grow spurts and puberty changed the playing fields. I went into it naive and quickly realized how little and weak I was compared in size to them. To this day I pay much respect to size and weight class because when you find yourself on the losing side of someone’s 70-pound advantage, no amount of gumption matters.

In physical trials you need size, strength, and smarts — and even then, you might not come out on top.

What does all this bemoaning about weight class have to do with how strong a woman can get?

In our society, strength is relevant to our comparisons, especially when comparing women to men. It shouldn’t be, but in the context of this article, .why talk about how strong a woman can get without talking about one of the main reasons it’s discussed in the first place? Articles discussing the strength abilities of men often focus on strength whether or not steroids are involved, and culminate with lessons in continued optimization. It is already assumed that men can be strong; what is debated then is how strong they can get.

For example, it’s assumed a guy can help you carry a couch from one home to another. What might be debated with regard to his strength is whether or not he can lift a car off a helpless victim. In a gym setting, the average Joe lifter might be told he should be able to at least load 225 pounds on a bar, while the average Jane lifter is overwhelmingly advised to just stick with the bar, regardless of each one’s height and weight. Generally, it is assumed that the point of lifting for women isn’t to get strong at all, but rather to stay pretty.

How strong a woman can get is rarely up for debate. Society doesn’t assume women can be strong, and even if some people believe in women’s physical strength, it’s always to a judgmental “lesser degree” than their male counterparts. It’s culturally assumed that women are weaker and that if we can get strong, it’s pitiful compared to men.

The truth is that strength isn’t black and white. One of the biggest lies we’ve been told regarding a woman’s strength abilities is that she could never be stronger than a man.

It’s Really Pound For Pound

Yes, a five-foot-four-inch woman weighing 135 pounds could never best, pound for pound in strength, a six-foot-four-inch man weighing 220 pounds — but neither could a five-foot-four-inch man weighing 135 pounds. That’s not a truth we hear often though, is it? We hear tales of David and Goliath all the time, but the truth is that size matters for men, too.

For example, take a collection of the most pragmatic men with regard to the possibilities of absolute strength: professional fighters. The good ones learn very quickly that weight (and within that weight, body types and body composition) is crucial in leveling the playing field. These are small variables that along with skill — not to mention good old-fashioned fear, placebo effect, and timing — can make or break a champion.

People celebrate Michael Phelps, and yes, he is incredibly good at what he does, but his weight, body type, and numerous genetic factors that he can’t control, provide Phelps an edge. Katie Ledecky, four inches shorter and 40 pounds lighter, with less overall muscle mass, clocked the same prelim time on the 400m freestyle.1 This isn’t to suggest she could be him, but it’s impressive nonetheless. It’s as impressive as other smaller men and women who have almost caught them both in a race. The average height and weight of high-level athletes mean everything. It’s why, when people are cheering about impressive athletes, it’s important to look past it and take into account a host of factors that shift appreciation of the athletes themselves to appreciation of their hard work and efforts.

Society has barely begun to see the full reach of women’s strength potential.

People scoff at the notion that Brienne Tarth of Game Of Thrones (portrayed by Gwendoline Christie) couldn’t be a realistic hero, but I beg to differ, my friends. She is six foot three and solid. Maybe she wouldn’t make an NFL offensive tackle look like a rag doll, but most men couldn’t either. Six foot three is not an average height for men or women. I would not want to be punched in the face by the end of her sword handle and most men wouldn’t either. In short, she is a very realistic and capable hero in the world in which she battles.

What does the science say?

One caveat before diving in is that there are some noted differences between genders in hormones and muscle fibers, especially in the upper body. However, those are not as dramatic as the interpretation of research often suggests, especially when looking at sample sizes.

Let’s look at muscle fibers in general, for instance. Muscle fibers are different between genders, individuals, and even within an individual’s body.2, 3 Genetic differences, however small they may seem, play a much larger role than we realize in the literal shaping of a body.4 This is why comparing yourself to a five-foot-eleven woman when you’re five foot two is not realistic.

When we look at how men and women respond to resistance training we see in some areas growth response is very similar.5 We also see that it isn’t just growth gaps between men and women, but also within the gender compared within themselves. In short, it’s not just, “Men always grow muscle easily, and women can’t grow muscle.” It’s more like, “Some men grow muscle easily, and some don’t. Same goes for women.” When we stack size, weight, nutrition control, and the similar fiber types — oh wait, we haven’t done that.

Where does that leave us, then? It leaves us having to read between the lines in a lot of the research. Keep in mind that men are the most commonly studied subjects in hypertrophy and strength research, and even then, they are often not properly controlled.

Women can go longer, and be faster, bigger, and stronger.

Here’s a notion you might not have thought of yet that could inspire you to build strength:

Bigger is stronger, and even then only technically — and even then, there are still exceptions to the rule. Let’s look at the science using some common sense rather than the lazy generalizations we’ve accepted as fact for too long.

Size matters more than gender.6 It matters that men, on average, are bigger and not only in fat mass but mostly in muscle mass.7 But, guess what? It isn’t about them in the first place. I know it may seem a contradiction to say it isn’t about men when a large part of this article has been about them, but we can’t ignore the elephant in the room.

I can’t drive home this point strongly enough — if you strength train, you are already ahead of the majority of the population. Your ability to get strong, even naturally, is exceptional. Keep these things in mind:

We all vary greatly in height, weight, muscle fibers, and genetics.

Comparison, in my modest opinion, is a wasted exercise. But if you must compare, compare in weight classes and take overall muscle mass volume into consideration — and I haven’t even touched on issues relating to variations of female advantages in endurance, balance, and recovery.

Studies have shown that simply believing that you have the ability to be strong with placebo steroid use leads to greater strength gains.8 In short, if you believe you can, you can.

So, how strong can a woman get, really? In arriving at an answer, size matters, but the belief in what you can do matters the most.

References

Zaccardi N. Michael Phelps jokingly challenges Katie Ledecky to race. NBC News Sports. Apr 2015.

Miller AE, MacDougall JD, Tarnopolsky MA, et al. Gender differences in strength and muscle fiber characteristics. Eur J Appl Physiol Occup Physiol. 1993;66(3):254-62.

Kristen L Schroeder, Benjamin WC Rosser, Soo Y Kim. Fiber type composition of the human quadratus plantae muscle: a comparison of the lateral and medial heads. Journal of Foot and Ankle Research 2014; 7:54.

Hughes DC, Day SH, Ahmetov II, et al. Genetics of muscle strength and power: polygenic profile similarity limits skeletal muscle performance. J Sports Sci. 2011 Oct;29(13):1425-34.

O’Hagan FT, Sale DG, MacDougall JD, et al. Response to resistance training in young women and men. Int J Sports Med. 1995 Jul;16(5):314-21.

Roth SM, Ivey FM, Martel GF, et al. Muscle size responses to strength training in young and older men and women. J Am Geriatr Soc. 2001 Nov;49(11):1428-33.

Bishop P, Curetin K, Collins M. Sex difference in muscular strength in equally-trained men and women. Journal Ergonomics. Mar 1986.

Ahiel G, Saville W. Anabolic steroids: the physiological effects of placebos. Medicine & Science in Sports & Exercise 4(2) · January 1972.

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