#powers called quirks

[shibaraki]

baby brother turned up at my house unannounced and stood in the doorway like “moo…can we watch my hero……..”

[kacievvbbbb]

Honestly despite my feelings about how the last arc of MHA went down I really love Deku and his story.

I just feel like a lot of the time we get these protagonists whose whole philosophy is it doesn’t matter what you were born as everyone can achieve greatness. But then the series goes on and it turns out that actually it DOES matter because the protagonist has this really great lineage and these really great powers you can only have through birth they were actually born born, predestined if you will, to do this.

But MHA actually sticks to its guns. Midoriya wasn’t revealed to have some great connection to all might that the universe had put in place. He wasn’t defended from some great lineage that makes him uniquely suited to this. Hell All for one didn’t even turn out to be his father, there was no hidden powerful quirk he was always meant to have. He was just Midoriya Izuku a boy who was in the right place at the right time and simply decided to act while the world did nothing. And that’s what really made him a hero.

I don’t know, maybe it’s just me, but I believe him a bit more when he goes anybody can be a hero if you just decide to act

[heronoegg]

my favorite part of AU's are Bakugo and im sure they are your favorite parts too, i decided half way through that the species i'm making Bakugo needed a tail cause when you make a species that's what you do do you not???

[sseniita]

hero; never learned how to drive

“Ever thought about retirement?”

“We don’t get that luxury.”

Hero glanced at the expensive car she was sitting in. Spotless and shiny. She noticed Villain’s silver watch, also seemingly expensive. 

“What luxuries can I have? I’ve never even driven a car.” 

Villain noticed the undertone. 

“I inherited this car from my father. It’s sentimental.”

“You hated your dad.” she sneered. Villain chuckled. 

Hero continued staring out the window. She felt annoyed at the frost growing on the window for a second until she realised she wouldn’t be able to see anything in the pitch black darkness anyway. She imagined the mountains that must’ve been there and flying past them, then she imagined how it must feel to want to fly and not be able to. She smiled. 

“You think…” she hesitated. “if I lost my powers they’d fire me?” 

“Mm. They’d probably keep you. Like a mascot of sorts. Maybe build a statue.” He said, nonchalantly. “Maybe in front of city hall,” he added. Enticingly. 

“I’d like a statue. Maybe in solid gold.” 

“You’d be lucky to get bronze if you lose a leg or something.” 

“What if I died?” 

Villain stood quiet. Hero waited for an answer. The motor was making a funny noise. 

“What do you mean what if?”

“Well. I’d like to retire.” Hero decided. Rather quickly. 

Villain’s mood was something tricky to read. Over the years Hero had become fluent in deciphering it, but she always imagined it wasn’t her becoming fluent- rather it was him speaking her language. Regardless, both options suggested some sort of intimacy Hero and Villain quietly shared and one that Hero held pride in.

“Retire?”

Hero decided she was feeling particularly lucky tonight. “Ya! You could come too! I was thinking we could start with a European museum trip for me. Maybe visit Japan for you. We’ll end up on the beach somewhere in Cuba-”

“Cut that out.” he interrupted. Hero noticed the slight stressful swerve of the car, but kept the lightness to her tone.

 “Don’t like my plan?” 

“I don’t like this game.” 

“What game?” 

“This one. You. Playing with the idea that you and I won't forever be what we are.” 

“And what am I?” 

“A hero.” 

“I hope not at 50.”

“You won’t make it to 50. Maybe at around 38 you’ll have a battle and die bravely and honourably in an impressive way as you save the planet-” 

“-then will I get my statue?” 

They continued quietly down the road. The sound of the car getting increasingly more present, Villain’ knuckles, getting progressively more white on the steering wheel. Finally, once they turned on the main road and the streetlights reappeared, they stopped. Villain got out of the car. He opened the passenger seat and signalled Hero to get out. She did. 

“You know I can fly, right? Deserting me here won’t do any-” Villain offered her the car keys. 

“You drive.” 

Before Hero could argue her body betrayed her and she already had a huge smile plastered on her face and the car keys in her hand. She should have caught onto the driving manual really quick, she was always a quick learner. But she couldn’t help but love the feeling of Villain’s hand on hers as he guided her through the gears five times over. Villain was uncharacteristically patient tonight.  

These were the pair’s favourite type of night. Of course, they’d both enjoyed drunken escapades, scheming all-nighters, and undercover missions, but rare occasions of dreadfully boring mundane activities were the best. It gave Hero a chance to play a normal woman- in this case: a normal woman learning to drive. And it gave the Villain a chance to catch a glimpse of how it could have been if they had met under different circumstances. 

The night ended, as per instructions of the Villain, by crashing the car into a ditch and the long walk back to town, side by side.

[somecunttookmyurl]

my laptop (finally) died the other day and must say design/print jobs from a phone are not the easiest but we soldier on 💪🏻

[tearfulangel]

i got an ace with my flower gun in the game i play ໒꒰ྀི മ ̫ മ ꒱ྀིა

[princess-of-the-corner]

Opinion on the idea of role-swap AU where everyone only swaps one random trait per pair? (like say, Audrey is the one who stayed in Paris while Andre dipped but its still very much regular Audrey. Or Shoto going to Aldera instead of Katsuki)

Honestly we have plenty of AU ideas that stem from 'character A does something different/Character A and B swap roles'.

[black-and-yellow]

Have you thought about how Mic could theoretically make a black hole with his quirk? I think about that often.

I have not, no. I think it would depend on if his body could handle that volume or whether he'd just die instantly which I think is more likely.

But if he could do it, what do you think would happen if he faced off against Thirteen. What happens when two black holes face eachother.

[airanke]

I love how if AFO tried to steal/stole quirks from some member's of Abiteth's family, they literally wouldn't work for him 😂😂 like Abiteth for ex. he needs to eat plants?? To grow them?? And he needs to know what they're useful for????????? Even Evette's quirk would be useless because he would have to have extensive knowledge of the plants he wants to grow.

It actually makes me wonder, how many quirks does/did AFO have that he COULDN'T use? Like I can believe he would get a body that could digest plant matter because that's what Abi has, or do all quirks not have specific parameters that have to be met in order to be used??? DID I JUST MAKE MY CHARACTERS QUIRKS UNNECESSARILY DIFFICULT TO USE AND/OR DUPLICATE??? (And if that IS the case, it MOST CERTAINLY WASN'T INTENTIONAL--)

[queer-ragnelle]

I know calling books “feminist” is a marketing ploy and not necessarily a reflection of the author’s intentions, particularly when applied to mythological retellings, but honest to god every book should be feminist automatically. Respecting women (on a subtextual level, at the minimum) is a given.

Considering a woman’s agency is in no way additional work and shouldn’t be unique in any way. This is especially important if the character is a minority of any variety—woc, disabled, trans, attracted to women, etc. It’s about dignity. Anything less than the utmost care is misogynistic.

If the women you write exist solely to tag #girlboss or #sapphic for sales, you have a problem. Reducing or even removing the male element doesn’t magically make you feminist. If you think the patriarchy is just the existence of men then you’re not a feminist you’re an idiot. Take a step back, stop writing, and read a multitude of fiction and nonfiction exclusively written by women. From all eras and parts of the world and genres, not just the current NYT bestseller list or current BookTok trend. Get some perspective before you come back or don’t come back at all.

[rainbowgod666]

Oh it actually bleeds huh

When you’re scrolling thru mobile in public and you see smth nsfw so you gotta scroll back up a bit to prepare your thumb to launch you through the nsfw fast enough so that no one sees it

[tojisun]

so obsessed with the “my cock is big so it wont fit” / “try me” relationship dynamic ughhhh thinking about this with simon and reader, and how reader’s desperation made them spiral, makes me so giggly

thinking about the way you finger yourself everyday to stretch yourself out for simon; preparing yourself for him. practicing for him.

it becomes a routine; it was mundane, almost, but every time the thought that you’re doing this for simon slithers its way back to the forefront of your mind, you lose yourself—doused in the tendrils of your desire, so powerful it has you clenching on your own fingers.

they never hit deeper, never stretch you out wider, but they scratch the itch to be stuffed and manage to satiate you long enough for the next day to roll by.

it’s a lot worse when you meet up with simon because your core throbs with need, leaving you crossing your legs to give yourself that muted relief. but it’s never enough, is it?

simon’s right there, voice thick like molten lava, viscous as it washes over you. “are you alright, love?”

and you lie, gritting your teeth and clenching your fists tightly, telling him that of course you’re fine. because what else can you say? “i dream of your cock so much that i fuck myself everyday as prep”?

if you do say that, simon won’t ever let you live it down. so you stay quiet, crossing-and-uncrossing your legs at every of his deep laugh or gentle crooning, trying your best to ignore the way his palm squeezes the muscle of your thigh. you wonder if he’s doing this on purpose by now because there’s no way simon actually does naturally talk like this—

it’s all teases and taunts as a whirlpool of petnames dribble from his quirked-up lips. he calls you, baby and darling. he calls you sweetheart and lovie. but then he also calls you pup, doll, pet—anything that makes you gasp, and quiet puffs of breaths wheeze out of your trachea in your own stupor.

“you seem distracted,” he murmurs, his voice a worried croon.

“uh-huh,” you say, not really listening, because simon’s hand is climbing up higher and higher on your thigh.

simon notices your stare, because of course he does, then does…

nothing.

he drops you off to your place that night, and leaves a kiss on your forehead before driving off. you watch from your living room window as he disappears from your line of sight before clambering towards your room, tearing your pants off your body and chucking your little slip of underwear behind you as you do so.

you sink into your plush mattress, knees braced by your softer pillows, before reaching behind you to plunge yourself with your fingers. two of them slide in easily, and you crook them just right until you’re mewling. moaning. crying.

simonsimonsimon—

your orgasm is a sharp rip of euphoric release. but the tidal wave of your ecstasy wafts off into its remnants just as quick because this, fucking yourself, isn’t the fix you want. it isn’t the fix you need.

(that said, making simon buckle was a lot easier said than done.)

you parted your legs yourself, planting your hands on the underside of your thighs to pull them open for simon. simon laughs when he saw this, his pale cheeks so flushed with his own desire.

“hurry,” you whine, all choked-up with your desperation, and simon only croons a warning.

“we need ta’prepare you, pup. i’m too big f’r you.”

his acknowledgment makes you leak, your wanton thoughts turning into slick that gushes out of you. simon laughs, so utterly endeared.

“i prepared myself, si! please put it in!”

simon sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. “i thought you wanted my cock?”

he waits for you to nod. you do so, careful, as your wet eyes look up at him.

“hmm. so listen to daddy, yeah?”

“okay,” you mumble, too overwhelmed to fight back.

simon smiles, murmurs his praises, and then he’s bringing his head between your legs. you squeak, surprise dotting your vision. you expected simon to prepare you, yes, but you expected his fingers—long, rough, thick—and not his tongue—

“siii-monnnn,” you keen, legs buckling from your hold until they tumble to his back, your strength getting zapped out of you at every lap of simon’s tongue.

it’s so good! so, so good!

simon takes over, hooking your legs over his shoulders himself as he burrowed deeper, nose grinding against the sensitive underside of your sex. his tongue pushes against your walls, sliding between them, and then simon sucks.

fuck! fuck—

sorta pt 02

[embers-of-the-league]

Okay, so here's where we're at apparently

Tomura is dead

Toga is dead (or, let's just call it as it is, she committed suicide) - this is despite the fact that if she died other characters (read: heroes) should have died as well, but didn't (Bakugo and Edgeshot for example)

Dabi is presumably still in the hospital (since we didn't see a funeral), unable to move or do anything on his own

Spinner wrote his book, but where he is and how he's actually doing is unknown - presumably he still has to deal with multiple quirks that aren't his own and are tearing at his body

Compress is alive but where he currently is is unknown - he read Spinner's book (and that's it)

Kurogiri exploded?? And nobody has bothered to mention anything about him since

Twice has been dead for a while, but his murderer is not only free of charge but also the head of the HPSC (which still exists btw)

Other things:

The hero ranking system still exists

Seemingly no real changes have been made which would help victims like the LOV before they felt like they had to turn to villainy to be heard/seen/understood

Deku gets to be a hero again by the power of ~technology~ - kinda making the whole deal about him losing his quirk feel pointless

Not from this chapter, but I still feel like it's very important to point out that it's heavily implied that Rei is just gonna take care of Enji (her abuser) now and probably for the rest of time

The few good things:

Ochako bringing more focus on mental health

That was it, I have nothing else

[thesongoficeandfir3]

The coronation

Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem!Wife!reader

AU where the blacks won

Warnings: none, just Jace and his wife reader being cute before his coronation

You make your way down the long corridor of the Red Keep’s ancient castle halls, your steps echoes loudly off the stone walls and floor. You soon approach heavy oak door where two knights stand and upon seeing you they immediately pull the large doors open. When you walk in you are met with a scene that takes your breath away. There in the center of the room your husband Jacaerys stands, dressed in a long, heavy, and expensive red and black regalia, fit for a king.

When you entered the room you were met with the back of him standing still. He was surrounded by several maidservants who are busy adjusting and fastening every piece of his attire, ensuring they fit perfectly for this very crucial day. There are large glass windows in the room and the bright morning light cast a glow on Jacaerys who stands in the center as if the gods themselves are casting their blessings on him for this important day.

His red and black robes are a vision of opulence and power. The material is thick and heavy, a velvety red silk that drapes him gracefully. Sewn into the sleeves, are subtle but intricate designs of sea horses and dragons, to represent both of his houses, each carefully crafted out of shimmering black thread. The back of the robe is longer than the front, pooling on the ground behind him in a dramatic train.

Your own gown had matched Jace’s, something Jace was very insistent on when it came to the designs of them. You are not sure when it started, but sometime during the first year of your marriage you found a lot of your and Jace’s outfits subtly match whether it was a big occasion or not. Your gown though less elaborate than your husband's, it still a vision of beauty fitted perfectly for a queen.

As you silently stand behind him, he meets your eyes in the reflection of the mirror he’s standing in front. A small smile dances across his lips and his dark eyes glitter with affection. It's the same look he gives you every morning when he kisses you awake.

Jacaerys holds up a hand, the gesture causing the maidservants to stop their movements in an instant. "That's enough," he says, his deep voice firm and commanding. "You may leave us."

They curtsey quickly and walk away, shutting the door behind them. Once they are gone, keeping your back straight as much as you could and your head bowing low you curtsey.

“My king.” you say with a teasing grin.

“Stop that.” he playfully rolls his eyes walking over to you. He places a hand on your chin with a tender touch, lifting your head and gesturing for you to stand.

“You look ethereal.” you whisper out, looking into his dark brown eyes with nothing but love and admiration.

“As do you my issa prūmia.” he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Are you nervous?” you ask.

He moves his hands down from your face to holding your hands squeezing them slightly.

“Just a little.” he answers, his shoulder dropping not realizing he was tense the entire time.

You notice this and move one of your hands to caress his cheek to help calm him.

“You should not be, your grandsire and mother were wonderful rulers and they passed everything they know on to you, so I have no doubt you will be just as good.”

He nods leaning into your touch, the warmth of your words and touch calming him a little, but still a small part of him is nervous.

“So does this mean from now on I have to bow when I enter every room you are in.” you tease hoping to lighten the mood.

“Hmm,” he pauses for a moment pretending to think. He then leans in slightly. “Yes, I think you will have to bow before me….Every…..Single……..Time. He says each word deliberately slow meeting your teasing banter

“Oh?“ you quirk and eyebrow feigning surprise. “Does that mean I must always call you my king as well?” you lean in closer causing your lips to be mere inches apart.

“Of course my darling,” he says reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear being very careful not to mess with the elaborate hair do, his fingers then trail along your jawline “I am your king, after all.” He smirks down at you.

“And I am your queen” your eyes had yet to leave his during your entire conversation.

“And a beautiful queen you are.” he presses his lips to yours lingering for a few moments before pulling away.

“And your child and rightful heir.“ you take his hand pressing it to your growing pregnant belly.

Jaceaeyrs feels a rush of emotion at the feeling of your belly under his palm, his eyes drifting down to where your hands meet before looking back up at you, His expression softens further. “Our child” he corrects a protective hand still resting on your stomach.

Your heart swells, though such a small gesture you can’t help but feel emotional that he said ‘our’ instead of his.

He suddenly kneels before you his fingers splaying on the swell of your stomach gently kissing it before resting his forehead on it.

“Our future king or queen.” He whispers out.

Your breath hitches at his unexpected action.

“J-Jace,” you stutter out. “This is unbecoming you are to be king” you say feeling extremely flustered.

He chuckles the sound deep and rich.

“Out there I am, but in here with you I am just a man who loves his wife and unborn child dearly” he plants one more kiss on your bump before standing. He places his hands on your hips bringing you close once more.

You reach out and grab the livery collar, each piece being one of the kingdom’s house sigil. You carefully place it over his shoulder before fastening the last button of the robe and smoothing a hand over his chest.

“Now then, let us get you to your coronation.” You smile

“As you command my queen.”

[starlight-storytime]

Shinso: *is an edgy outcast with a purple color scheme and a nice voice*

Danny, who may or may not have a type: *catches feels*

I have decided that Danny has the Lichtenberg figure, one because I love that concept and two chronic pain buddies!?

Deku then interrogates him on his ‘quirk’ and Danny ends up realizing he really knows nothing about what his powers are and stuff and the two work together to figure it out

[yameoto]

COACH KNOWS BEST. ART, TASHI, PATRICK.

synopsis; you fucked up an important match. your punishment? a one-on-one match against patrick zweig. in your tiny tennis skirt. without your underwear. don't worry, baby. it's a private court.

✗ warnings ; coach!artashi, protégé!reader, dom!art/tashi/patrick, dubcon, foursome, double penetration, unhealthy power dynamics, large age-gap, slutshaming, exhibition, humiliation, sex on tennis courts, anal (you only have so many holes). this is NOT a classy party.

"DO i really have to wear this?" you hiss, indignant. fruitlessly attempting to tug your skirt down—if you could even call it that. a flimsy scrap of fabric, more like. (god, you think maybe it was tashi's when she was what—eleven?).

the hem just barely skims over your upper thighs. you can feel a goddamn breeze between your legs. you're eternally grateful for art and tashi, really, but this is fucking insane—

no— it's fine. it's fine. they’re your coaches, they know best.

"maybe if you hadn't fucked up that last volley." tashi scolds, harsh — her tough love familiar. though, there's a delighted glint to her eyes as you subconsciously squeeze your thighs together, trying your best to ignore the fact your ass is peeking out from under the bottom. your cheeks flare red.

“it’s a private tennis court.” art reassures, the warmth of his palm on your shoulder being far less comforting than normal. you scowl at the ground, knuckles clenching tight around your racket.

"oh, don't be so skittish. he's not that good." tashi coos, as if facing patrick zweig is the reason you're shifting your weight from foot to foot, hand squeezed determinedly at your crotch. tashi smiles. cradles your jaw, fingers swiping along your bottom lip—bitten raw and glossy. "just play your best." an hour later, and you’re not playing your best. you can’t play your fucking best—because with every movement, every hop, skip, and fucking jump; your skirt is fluttering upward and flashing your bare cunt to patrick motherfucking zweig.

this is hell. hell.

you're stiff as you move about the court, hyper-aware of the feeling of wind rushing between your legs. you’re sluggish in your pace—far too pre-occupied with yanking your skirt down every few seconds rather than actually focusing on the match.

how can you? especially when patrick's staring at you like he's trying to rip your thighs apart with his eyes. art and tashi are no better. you jump to return a ball, and your skirt flies up; displaying your ass spectacularly. you almost get whiplash with how fast you go rigid. “open up your form.” tashi chimes in. you shoot her a desperate, pleading look. she just arches a brow, expression impassive—though you don't miss the subtle quirk to her lips. she’s enjoying this. suppressing a whine, you broaden your stance obediently—legs sliding apart on the court. patrick's pupils dilate, and he not-so-subtly presses the hilt of his racket into his groin.

you swallow, hard. his eyes seem to follow that, too.

you're about to serve, before art’s voice cuts in from the sidelines—soft, low and yet—effortlessly authoritative.

"lower."

heat floods up to your ears. you bend down, feeling the fabric of your skirt hike even higher up your exposed asscheeks. you direct him a desperate glance, eyes wide—a bid for approval.

art smiles. "lower." a low whimper slips from your lips, but you obey because they're your coaches, of course you'll do what they say. patrick grunts in barely concealed disappointment as the front of your skirt drapes further over your cunt. your blush is violent. fuck, you look like the intro to a porno; back arched, ass perked so high the goddamn sun is warming your cheeks. you want to crawl into a hole and die.

though, when you finally risk a glance back; the feeling turns into a strangely pleasant heat, unfurling in your gut. tashi's eyes are lidded, sunglasses slid halfway down her nose. art's pupils are so dark his eyes have lost their blue. his thighs are quivering.

"good girl." tashi purrs. you shiver, and you almost drop your racket. "

"oh, fuck this." patrick growls, and then all of a sudden his racket has clattered to the ground and he's lunging for you—two hands clumsily seizing your hips and shoving you to the ground. he doesn't even have to hike up your skirt. his knee is shoved up between your legs, meaning he has full access to everything. he stares, greedy—and you stare back; specifically at the way the swollen tip of his cock hangs out from the side of his shorts. his slit drools, and a fat glob of pre-cum splats on your thigh.

he shrugs at the way your jaw drops—wry grin splitting his lips. "what? didn't want you to feel left out."

"patrick." art stands, voice low with rare warning. possessiveness. patrick only shoots back a broad smirk—lifting his hand up to give him the finger—before sticking up his index and wagging it in a stupidly lewd motion. if possible, it makes your cheeks glow even hotter than they already are—it's type of thing boys your age would do, not a grown-ass man.

"what, man? you can't tell me this isn't exactly what you wanted."

art scowls, though he doesn't say anything—the massive hard-on he's sporting speaks for itself. tashi's expression is unreadable from behind her shades; but nothing ever happens without tashi's say so.

"dude, she's so wet." patrick grins, and to your rising horror—you are. he spits on his palm before roughly thumbing the slick down your thighs, smearing, before popping it in his mouth. he swirls his tongue over the nub of his thumb, waggling his brows.

"of course she is." tashi hums, and a whine tears from your throat. shaking your head adamantly because for some reason tashi’s instantaneous, patronising nod of assent makes you feel more like a whore than patrick’s fingers sliding up your skirt. no, no. i don't. it's sweat. i swear, swear to god—

before the slew of protests can find its way out of your throat; three fingers are shoving themselves up your cunt and you gasp—back thrashing against hot concrete.

“oh, you didn't want this?” tashi’s voice drawls, low and slow and deliberate in your ear, hips rolling into yours. you whine, drawing a white-hot blank as her fingers slide deeper into your cunt, “because i don't see any tennis players on the court. just a couple of sluts.”

you barely even register patrick's aggrieved "hey!" from offside, the unfairness of it all bubbling up in your stomach and dizzying your head because what the fuck— that's not— you made me— but you can't force the words out; not when you can feel two hands wrest behind you by the shoulders. the feeling of callouses against your skin familiar—disarming. you whimper, a plea for salvation. "art—"

''shush." art hisses, roughly seizing the band of your tennis skirt and jerking it entirely up your mid-riff, so you're completely exposed waist-down. your eyes blow wide at the humid air that rushes against your crotch—back arching when his hand snakes under your top and pinches at your nipples.

"i'm surprised you even bothered with these." he remarks as he shoves your bra aside, not unkindly—but hardly considerate either, with the way his fingers squeeze and pinch and twist meanly. your knees almost buckle from under you.

not that they can, not with patrick holding you up by the backs of your thighs, shorts slid midway down his thighs. his cock throbs, swollen and needy as he pushes his groin up against yours. "m'shocked you even let me through the gates," patrick hums, and you don't have to look to know he's breathing down art's neck. "to break your little rookie in, no less." he's so cocky, spit flecking your pussy—talking like you aren't even there.

you squirm, but art is groping your tits and patrick is wrenching your legs apart and tashi has thrust a fourth finger up your pussy and fuuuuck—your limbs are reduced to jelly. thrust and tied up on a ridiculously hot torture wrack; tugged and pulled and twisted in three directions at once.

"not so fucking fast—the deal was if you won. you didn't fucking win." that's tashi. her fingers curl harshly, knuckles pressing against your walls. you take in a shuddering breath, eyes rolling back into your head.

"what the fuck? that's so unfair." patrick's voice is an indignant whine as tashi yanks him back by the hair. "i was winning! how the hell was i supposed to control myself—" you can feel his hands clamping over your ass, rough and domineering. his dick insistently wedges into the corner between your thigh and folds, as if trying to force entry.

"maybe if you had a little self-discipline, for once—"

"oh, that's fuckin' rich of you to say, making her come out here and—"

"shut up." art pants, low and hot in your ear, and you almost forgot he was there. you don't know how, with the way he's grinding his length furiously against your bare ass—damp in the way you know he's already creamed his pants already. his fingers wrest the nub of your nipple at the same time that patrick brute-forces his way inside your cunt. your body contorts between the three of them—a choked, rattled cry ripping from your throat and sending your vision dancing into spots. for a terrifying, blissful moment, your brain empties completely.

"god—" patrick grunts, shoving himself deeper, nails digging into the flesh of your ass as he pounds, with great effort. tashi's eyes flash with annoyance, though she doesn't physically wrench him off. not one to be one-upped; the next time art bucks his hips, you realise he's ditched the pants entirely—head of his cock dragging against the crease of your ass. it's a slick, slow friction—tender—dripping a glistening trail down your crack. and then, his hips snap back, and then he's plunging into your hole—the wet, slapping sound of his balls against your ass almost as loud as patrick's moans as he stuffs your pussy full. the two ram into you with vicious ferocity—like they're seeing who can come inside you first.

it hurts it hurts it hurts. as if the insides of your body have been set alight, limbs writhing uselessly—a bubbling, curdling heat deep in your belly. but it also feels good, somehow. when your head lolls forward, boneless and fuzzy; you can see the way your stomach distends with each of patrick and art’s brutal thrusts. the outlines of their cocks, cramming into you—fierce, desperate. tashi can see too, clearly. her free hand delicately runs over your abdomen—nails scraping. you can’t even gasp at the cool sensation. not when you’ve felt fuller than you ever have in your life.

it’s just like tennis. just like tennis. no pain, no gain—right?

art comes first, because of course he does. letting out a soft, keening hiss of his own as he slams his hips into you, palm squeezing your tits so hard you think you're about to burst. he shoots his load into you with a choked whine. he doesn't pull out—doesn't want to abandon the tight warmth of your hole, hugging his cock like the world’s prettiest little fleshlight. he simply fucks back into you with a blissful groan. slowly, painfully, knees quivering as his seed squirts out with every thrust.

patrick is louder when he does it; grunting with a guttural "mmf— fuck!" hips stuttering jerkily as a torrent of sticky warmth floods into you, oozing out from between his cock and tashi's fingers. it dribbles down your legs and spatters wet splotches against the tennis court. you can't even speak anymore, lips parting in wordless gulps of air.

that's when tashi yanks her fingers out from you—strings of cum trawling, stretching out of your pussy as she does so. you don't even have time to mourn the loss before art's stuffing you full of his dick again and tashi is cramming her warm, wet fingers in your mouth.

art is simply jerking in slow, torturous movements, and tashi is sliding her hand so far down your throat you almost choke. she smiles. "suck." it’s an order—not that she has to. you're already wrapping your tongue around her digits, mindless and drooling. patrick slumps between your knees, tongue greedily lapping at the spurts of his cum lazily dribbling from your pussy, in time with art's thrusts.

the concrete sizzles against your back, sun warming your limbs—dried cum smeared on your cheek. you feel dizzy, you feel good. warm. this is everything you've ever wanted—everything you‘ve ever needed.

(your coaches really do know best.)