#so i think that makes me a good average test

[goshikkuseo]

Harley Sawyer x Female Reader [Not Safe For Work]

Hear me out on Harley Sawyer.

His voice is so hot. I'm also going to be quoting few of his voicelines from the game because he's making my mind foggy. I don't know much about the lore and just watched gameplays, just following my heart <3

This is also my first post, so sorry for any mistakes.

Imagine before the whole disaster, when he was still human, you were in a secret relationship with him. He kept this relationship a secret because while he loved and obsessed over you, he had work to do. Despite this, he was still able to sate your “needs.”

Starting off with some details… Harley's dick is big. Long, thick, and veiny. Even when soft. His “soft length” is no less than 8 inches. His “hard length” on the other hand, is a solid 10 inches. He's cut and tip color is around #e89797. Width is 2 inches. You would definitely need some time to adjust.

Borderline hyperspermia. One load of his is almost enough to fill a bucket, meaning an average condom won't help. Semen consistency is thick and creamy.

Harley is vanilla at first. He's very good at it and still had you mindless for a while. But as your relationship with him develops, so does his way of satisfying you.

His libido isn't very high. 4/10 at least and 6/10 at most. Sex is amazing, though.

Harley's favourite position is missionary or you riding him while he fucks you so he could see your breasts bounce. He can also do you from behind if it's a quickie.

He has a thing for pulling your hair, forcing you to look at him, then kissing you. He doesn't mean to hurt you, he just gets carried away. This also happens when he grips your arms, hips, waist, and wrists.

He also has a thing for your hands. He loves to hold them, kiss them, and even sucks your fingers. He likes to massage your hands for you whenever you're exhausted from working.

Harley likes to give, but isn't against you giving him a blowjob. All you need to do is to moan and arch your back for him. He's not only good at fucking, he's also good at licking. This is really important because he needs to prepare that cunt for his big dick.

“Please, do keep making this enjoyable for me.” He'd say that as he tries not to fuck your face during a blowjob. Still, you'd see him holding onto whatever else he could reach.

Harley tries to hold back his moans. He thinks they make him sound submissive. Instead, you'll hear gasps and groans from him. As well as cutoff moans…

He can last up to four rounds. The both of you also agreed about protection. He's always the one to bring condoms and will even buy your birth control for you.

Harley would call you names like “darling,” “doll,” and “love.” He always tells you how much he loves you, but doesn't praise you. He shows it through “action.”

Very good aftercare. He would check the spots where he held you, looking for any bruises, scratches, and even wounds. Since you would likely pass out, he would clean and change your clothes before him. If you somehow didn't, he wouldn't be less caring. He kisses and cuddles you.

He would act like nothing happened when he gets back to work, but you'd see him with a slight tent in his pants whenever you look at him in the eye.

Now, imagine this. Imagine when you start sensing something isn't quite right with the company. You also noticed how defensive Harley becomes when you ask him about certain things. So, with careful consideration, you decided to tell him about your decision of leaving the company and ending your relationship. He remains calm, but doesn't take this very well.

Harley knows this wasn't an easy decision for you. He knows you still love him. So, he waits for you to be at your lowest before he strikes. He finds a way to make you his - and that is to leave a piece of him in you. In that womb.

“Let's test the response to said fear when pushed into action.” He says as he forces you down, ready to fuck you without protection. No condom, no birth control.

Harley fucks you without mercy. His dick's outline would be visible from underneath your stomach's skin because of how big it is. He hits that sweet, sweet spot that makes your eyes roll back and your back arch. It doesn't take long before he's practically trying to penetrate your cervix as he bruises it with his tip.

You cry, kick, scratch, scream, try to talk him out of it - everything. Nothing works. That's when you start to regret your decision. You now have to face the consequences.

“You realize the futility of this, don't you?”

He makes you cum multiple times until you're on the verge of passing out. He then leans down, whispering how he'd impregnate you.

Before you could even say anything, Harley lets out a guttural groan and you feel his hot seed being spilled directly into your fertile little womb. You try to wriggle away, but it was too late.

“Don't fight. Fighting only makes it work quicker.”

Right before you pass out, you heard Harley whisper, “I have seen enough. Thank you. You may proceed.”

He still cleans you up, though. He may have given you some space, but he still loves and stalks you~

There's no way you're not pregnant after that.

[a-substantial-trash-pile]

PSA to anyone here who's in the mouthwashing or stardew fandoms:

according to this PSA post here that someone tagged me in (which is much appreciated), it's recommended that you turn off asks because apparently on the 25th there are people out there planning on sending gore images to mouthwashing/stardew blogs.

i don't want to instill panic or anything, since i've never received anything like this despite being both a mouthwashing and stardew fanartist. and there is a chance this is something being blown out of proportion. HOWEVER it's better to be safe than sorry.

i was originally going to reblog the original warning post, but opted to link it instead just in case that post ends up being used by ne'er-do-wells to find targets.

[adore-gregor]

my perception of grades totally changed since i started uni

[heavenbarnes]

I wanna make it (so badly)

Art Donaldson x Fem Reader

Warnings/Contains: reader is AFAB with she/her pronouns, swearing, inappropriate employer/employee relationship, dry-humping, a lot of heavy petting, implied age gap, effective-infidelity (reader tested, tashi approved), oral sex (f!receiving), art is a bit of a pervert and mega-pathetic (endearing), references to religion (worship).

Word Count: 5.8k

i white knuckled the steering wheel on the way home from this film thinking about art donaldson- this is, essentially, an ode to that

Youth tennis lessons, $20/h, call for details

Finding work was hard, keeping work was harder.

Cleaning, baby-sitting, pet-sitting, pet-walking. There was virtually nothing you hadn't tried.

Odd jobs, odd hours, and the occasional odd employer.

You'd played tennis for the last couple years of college. Nothing remotely competitive but you and your friends had looked cute in the skirts and they'd give you whole hours out of class to play.

You were above average with a good arm and better patience.

Another odd job to add to your growing list.

You'd been particular about where you'd posted the ads, the neighbourhoods you'd chosen. Only the ones with manicured lawns and white picket fences.

Tacking the paper to boards in upmarket cafes, fancy supermarkets, ladies-only gyms.

The kind of people that want their kids playing tennis and could find their way to increase your pay- if you did well.

You always did very well.

So your little car looked a little out of place in this neighbourhood, fingers holding the scribbled post-it note with the address. Your scrawling handwriting detailing the "Donaldson's" were enquiring within.

Pulling up outside the house, you had a quiet inkling that you might've been out of your depth. Whoever owned this house deserved more than an above-average-ex-college-student that only learnt the sport to spend time with friends.

But they'd requested you, you'd have to let them come to that conclusion on your own.

Your knuckles only hit the door once before it was being swung open by someone that looked destined to be a security guard, like he'd come out the womb with his future decided.

What the fuck had you gotten yourself into?

He'd left you in the "formal lounge" to sit smack-bang in the centre of a couch that wouldn't even fit in the lobby of your apartment building- let alone the apartment itself.

As you admired a painting on the wall that you'd only ever seen in books, high heels on the stone floors made you jump in your seat.

The most beautiful woman you might ever see in your life appeared before you and said your name in a way that had you standing from your seat.

Your face faltered just enough that you hoped she didn't notice. There was something about her that told you she noticed everything.

Fuck me, that's Tashi Duncan.

If you know a thing about tennis (or even just watched the news) you know exactly who this woman is. You remember her more from your childhood but you remember her all the same.

The woman that once held the world by the balls.

She apologised for her husband's absence, that he was busy. It wasn't lost on you that the "husband" she casually referred to was Art Donaldson, US Open champion.

The Donaldson's.

Ah fuck.

Tashi went on the explain that they were wanting to begin lessons for their daughter Lily. You assumed this was the one you could hear running circles around the informal lounge.

"With all due respect, am I not the least qualified person in this home for that?"

You watched a perfectly formed cheekbone lift in what was nearly a smile. Strangely enough, something in the pit of your chest was dying to make her do that again.

There was something about her that demanded to be impressed.

You were no exception to the rule.

"My husband and I have seen some of your matches, we liked what we saw."

How? Your 'matches'- if you can even call them that, were nothing of note. You don't even think faculty bothered to watch them. You weren't quite sure why they'd even recorded them.

A silly part of you began to wonder how they'd even got a hold of them- until you remembered who they were.

The Hermes and Peitho of tennis.

"You did? I always thought of myself as more of a casual player."

"And that's what we liked, we know better than anyone how brutal tennis can become. We want someone to help Lily enjoy the game."

Oh, okay then.

You'd made a quasi-college-career out of purely enjoying the game. You were sure you could foster the same spirit for the six-year-old performing the entire 'Encanto' soundtrack in the other room.

Tashi laid down a tight schedule, Monday to Friday, 3pm to 6pm. You would teach Lily the wonders of the game on the court behind their home.

Their home you'd come to find out was a luxury rental when you'd complemented Tashi on another of the art pieces that'd apparently come with the place.

You'd also come to find out they typically live in hotel rooms, but they'd settled in this area for the time being as Art had a good thing going with a regular playing schedule and a sporting-goods deal.

You nodded along like you could begin to understand a life like that.

As she showed you back to your car (the one you suddenly felt humiliated for her to see you own), she called your name one last time from the doorway.

"You undersell yourself, we'll give you eighty an hour."

She left you choking on your tongue with one foot in the car and the other on an Italian cobblestone.

You were never going to walk or sit another dog again.

Lily was going to win her first Grand Slam by ten if that's what they'd pay you.

As your peeled your car from their turn-around area, you watched a Jeep Wrangler slow as it passed you. You couldn't see through the tint but you just knew it was him.

And you knew he was watching you.

-

The minute you'd told your roommate the situation you'd come into, she'd called bullshit.

A few texts from Tashi's now saved icon and a weird little photo you'd taken from inside the guest bathroom, it'd been enough to convince her.

"Fucking hell, are you God's favourite or something?"

You'd argue you were quite the opposite, she of all people should know. She'd seen some of the states you'd come home in after your other random jobs.

Felt good to be the winner.

Even just once.

In the air of some girlish fascination, she brought up a Youtube video of "Tashi Duncan Career Highlights" courtesy of "tennisguy779."

You'd protested it, rolling your eyes while feigning disinterest. No use, the minute you caught her out the corner of your eye- you were captivated.

It was entirely possible to imagine she hovered above the court, like there was a greater force placing her exactly where she needed to be, exactly when she needed.

It was even easier to believe she was just that good.

As you watched her play, listened to the sounds the game could draw from her- you wondered if this was how she and Art had felt.

Had they curled up in their informal lounge like you were right now? Had Tashi studied your every move meticulously like you assume? Had Art passed comment on your form? Did he think you were any good?

Tennisguy779's lineup changed quickly to "Art Donaldson Career Highlights" and you felt your chest constrict. An inexplicable feeling washed over you.

Like you'd been caught with God's forbidden fruit.

Your roommate had tried to question why you'd effectively flown off the couch, only to be met with a muttered 'goodnight' as you shut the bedroom door behind you.

Thin walls meant you drifted off to sleep that night with the rhythmic sounds of Art, grunting his way through an ATP Challenger.

It was no surprise you dreamt of him.

-

The Donaldson's tennis court was down a steep set of stairs, set back into an oasis of lush greenery.

Perfect for a 6-year-old's first lessons.

You didn't know if it was the grand balcony that overlooked the court or the fact a well-manicured Tashi stood atop it, but you felt positively observed.

Lily was in the midst of showing you how she could do a cartwheel (she couldn't) when the voice in the back of your head started echoing a promise of $80/h.

"Alright, lets channel some of that into your elbow."

Give a six-year-old a racquet half the size of her and she's going to blow effective chunks, but at least she has the spirit. Maybe it's her energy, maybe it has been a while since you've been on the court-

The kid's running you ragged.

Coupled with her height, you're spending more time bent over than you are up straight and it's all going to your head. All you can hope is Tashi isn't up there watching you stumble after the ball.

But you're sure there are eyes on your back.

Lily is a quick learner and you work out a tradeoff of one tennis skill for one spinning heel kick (mandatory that you watch).

Roll on 6pm and she's dog-tired, however, she's managed to hit the ball at least twice. Surely that's earned your keep. She lays star-fished on the turf and murmurs something about a piggyback.

You know you're about to earn your keep.

By the top of the staircase, you're more than happy to hand over a Lily-shaped-sack-of-potatoes to Tashi's mother. As you emerge from behind an ornate gargoyle, your suspicions proved correct.

Art Donaldson had been watching your every move.

Left alone on the balcony with him, you're acutely aware of the fact he's standing between you and your exit, and he's just had a full show of you bent over and flitting about his tennis court.

That and you still haven't said so much as 'hello' to the man.

You dwell on it for a moment and then there's that feeling back in the pit of your stomach, like any minute you'll be caught with fruit in hand- in throat.

The Original Sin.

Luckily, Art made the decision for you, crossing the space to shake your hand. If he noticed the way your hand trembled, he didn't seem to mind.

"It's nice to finally meet you."

You wished you had more to say to him, or maybe something more intelligent. Something better than a quiet "and you."

He was the better conversationalist, thankfully. Head motioning to the court, he looked down his nose at you when he spoke.

It should've felt condescending. It didn't.

"How did she go out there?"

"Yeah, really good- not a Disney character I can't name now."

He laughed.

Really laughed, like the joke was better than it was.

Like there was a preening little flutter inside you that said "do it again!"

You shrugged your shoulders like making him happy came naturally as you squinted up at him, as if he was the sun.

"You were watching? You must've seen her picking it up?"

Because he was the expert. Because he is the champion.

He hummed as he nodded, eyes skywards like there might've been something more important behind the clouds.

"Must've been distracted."

Within an instant- his eyes flickered to your own and you were sure he watched them change. He must've seen something he liked, the corner of his lip quirked up before he spoke again.

"Come on, I'll sort your payment and then we'll let you get home."

And for whatever reason, his hand fit perfectly in the small of your back as he lead you inside.

-

And how quickly did you become a strange piece of furniture in the Donaldson's home- in their life?

An ottoman for Tashi to rest her tired feet on.

An abstract piece on the wall for Art to admire when he passes it.

A projection of constellations across the ceiling to keep Lily bright behind the eyes.

At least you belonged- there was no doubt that this was where you belonged.

That wasn't to say your tennis skill had improved any, lesson after lesson you still couldn't wrap your head around why they'd even signed you on, let alone kept you.

"Ok, don't watch that one either- maybe just do what I say and not what I do."

You hadn't nailed a single one, at this point you couldn't blame Lily for skipping around pretending her racquet was a horse.

Wasn't like she'd be learning anything if she was paying attention.

"Ok, here we go just- ok right, when your parents ask how today went, please be kind."

"Your elbow is too low."

It was a miracle you didn't scream.

Art entered the court with a swagger that you could only assume struck fear when he was your opponent.

Right now it struck pure embarrassment and Lily wasn't helping.

"Daddy, she didn't hit a single one!"

"Alright, I don't think daddy needs to know that-"

"Daddy knows, daddy's been watching."

Daddy really needs to stop calling himself that.

Lily and her racquet took off for another tour of The Grand National as Art approached you with quiet determination.

It was like waiting for impact, his eyes never wavered off his daughter as he made towards you. At the last moment, he snapped his attention in your direction- with a smile that should've felt condescending.

It wasn't.

"If your elbow is too low you lose topspin and power."

If you deserved the $80/h you were earning, you might've known that.

As Art stepped up to you, the turn of the planets on their axis slowed down and it could've been entirely possible to believe it was only you two.

And Lily upon her trusty steed.

The gallops of her tennis shoes thinned out as Art placed one hand around your elbow, lifting it higher. His other hand held your waist as he pulled your back flush to his chest.

"Lily, go find grandma."

Then it really was just you two.

Your heart hammered against the shell of your ribcage, blood rushing around your ears as you felt Art's chin perch at your shoulder.

"If your elbow is high enough," His hand lifted it up and you let it stay there. "And your hip is turned."

He didn't have to say it with the gravel in his voice, but he did. He didn't have to hold your hips as he moved them, but he did. He didn't have to stay without so much of an inch between the two of you, but he did.

With one hand in the curve of your waist, he tossed the ball into the air with the other- then he whistled.

Like the obedient thing you didn't know you were, you raised the racquet and sent the ball flying through the air without even blinking.

As the streak of green hit the court and rolled away, you found yourself lying in wait, as if you were waiting for something- your next command?

"Good girl."

There it was.

Under the all consuming effect that Art Donaldson just seemed to have on people, you'd entirely forgotten you were in a position you could be 'caught' in. By his all consuming wife, of all people.

So, you should've moved.

Quite honestly you should've straightened up and cleared your throat and thanked him and told him it was time for you to go home.

You should've moved.

But Art wasn't moving. If anything he was staying purposefully still at your backside.

Obedient thing you seem to be.

"Show me that again?"

So,

You teach Lily the bare basics of tennis for three hours and receive $80 on the hour.

Then Art spends three hours of his spare time teaching you to perfect your swing- in a way that couldn't ever vaguely resemble professional.

A simple transactional arrangement.

Your tennis improves on a slow but sure basis and he gets the most off-court action he's seen since college.

Even if it is just heavy petting on astro-turf.

A hand under the hem of a tennis skirt. A pressing hip against your own. A deep breath as your hair brushes past him.

You figure Art will take what he can get.

And it's never enough to raise alarm. Sure, there's that fluttering in your chest that warns you might get 'caught' but you're never quite sure what one might 'catch' if they found you out.

It's undoubted who that 'one' is though.

The one who holds the cards- holds the throat, maybe.

Tashi, who's presence precedes her perhaps more than her reputation. Even when she isn't there, she's there.

So, when Art's hand lingers too long on the outside of your thigh and you think you can feel it verging into the territory that'll change everything- it's Tashi on your mind.

You're beginning to think your conscience sounds a lot like Tashi.

-

Who are you if not obedient to the Donaldson's?

Chasing Lily around a court.

Adhering to Tashi's every request.

Being Art's fantasy.

Being Art's.

Most of the time, anyway. Three hours a week.

Something to keep him bright behind the eyes, maybe. Something to keep him happy. Something to keep him-

Winning?

He tells you he plays better with you around. The way he says it makes you giggle, a girlish little noise that sort of just slips out. He serves the ball with his eyes on you and, sure enough, it lands smack where he wanted it too.

Everything where he wants it. When he wants it.

Shy and inconsequential touches and glances shared just between you.

Until, well- until they weren't.

"Would you like a coffee?"

Tashi's mother had taken Lily off to bed, leaving you and Art separated by an island. Kitchen island.

He braced both palms against it as he watched you watch the door, wondering if you should cut and run, wondering if someone else might come through it.

Talking yourself out of it. Whatever it might be.

"Yes please."

Even he looked surprised, brows raising an inch as he turned to the Nespresso machine. You took the moment to watch his back, the muscles moving under the cool-dry fabric of his shirt.

You spent all your time pretending not to notice him that actually allowing yourself the chance to study him made you lightheaded.

Had he always looked this captivating?

He broke your focus with a coffee cup, sliding it towards you as he rounded the bench. His eyes didn't even waver off you as he took a sip of his own.

It wasn't lost on you that he managed to tongue foam off the tip of his nose.

This was the longest you'd stuck around after a tennis lesson, longest you'd allowed yourself to be in his presence. You weren't quite sure how big this thing could get.

Your mouth was opening before your brain had decided it was a good idea.

"Mr. Donaldson-"

"Art."

"Uh, Art- I really appreciate the help you've been giving me- uh, you know- with tennis."

He placed his coffee mug down, nodding as he did it. "My pleasure."

Naturally.

That brain of yours was still firing off at a mile a minute. There was a very tiny voice right at the back that said it was up to you how this night would end- you had a choice to make.

Placing your coffee mug beside his, you scanned his face to find him already looking at you. Perhaps the choice was already set.

Maybe it was fate.

All he said was your name, it could've been the way he said it- but your whole body was losing the rigidity it'd formed when he first asked you to stay longer. When he'd made the choice.

Crossing the small gap between you two, Art was careful to keep one hand on the kitchen bench as the other hovered beside you. Not touching you,

Yet.

One step closer and the tip of Art's nose was touching yours. You think you might've been able to smell the coffee off his breath.

It thinned out- leaving you with his sweat. Musk. Art.

A sudden surge of morals overcame you, your voice broke out as a gasp.

"What about Mrs. Donaldson?"

"Actually, it's still Duncan."

You screamed.

Right in his face.

Tashi's voice made you jump out of your skin.

However, Art didn't move. As you turned your head to gauge the way his wife stalked across the kitchen, you felt his nose brush against your cheek.

Tashi retrieved a tall bottle of Pellegrino from the fridge, taking a poignant sip as her eyes flitted between the two of you.

What a fucking sight.

Her husband, eyes shut and face pressed pathetically to their daughter's tennis instructor- his hands itching to close around your waist.

You, young and bleary eyed looking utterly caught. Staring up at her like she might decide your fate.

It took all your strength to find your words.

"I’m not here to teach tennis, am I?”

“No, of course not. You’re frankly terrible at tennis.”

There's the Tashi you were expecting.

Her words should've stung, but they didn't. They couldn't, not when her husband was laying his hands against your back and rubbing soothing circles down the length of your spine.

Not when his lips were mouthing wet kisses along your cheek.

Not when she was right. Spade's a spade.

"Why am I here?"

She snorted, a real dissatisfactory sound- like she hoped you were smarter than that. She was halfway to her bedroom before she cut you loose.

"Careful, he makes that sound before he cums."

-

And he had, just like she'd said.

Art had cum in his shorts, pressed up against your thigh with his face still smushed against your own.

And you'd taken it, obedience in spades.

You'd stood there and let him hump your leg like a bad dog and you'd even pat his head and whispered kind words in his ear after the mess he'd made.

Then you slipped out the front door to your car and you'd pretended not to notice that there were two bedroom lights on upstairs.

You hadn't even divulged the freaky details to your roommate when you got home.

But the showerhead knew all about them.

Visions of Art on the clouds of steam- replayed in your head the sounds he'd made right in your ear.

How he'd whimpered your name when he splashed his boxers like a fucking teenager.

It was no surprise you dreamt of him.

You even showed up next day, valiantly. You didn't run for the hills or even straight to a tabloid about how weird the Donaldson's really were.

And maybe that's why you hadn't told your roommate either.

Because telling someone what Tashi allowed? What Art liked?

That'd mean you'd have to admit your dirty little secret.

You loved it.

When you showed up, something was different. No usual chatter in the house, no shoes by the front door. You checked out the front window to see what you'd missed when you arrived.

Tashi's car was gone.

"She's taken her mom and Lily to the ballet."

At least you didn't scream this time.

You were lucky your back was to him, lest he see the self-righteous little smile that broke when the words settled.

"Oh, ok."

"I'll see you on the court."

Oh, ok.

Lest he see the disappointment that took over.

Following him close behind, you didn't know why you were effectively surprised that he still wanted to continue with your lessons. You'd half expected- hoped, he'd bend you over the kitchen island.

Tennis was fun too, you guess.

Thinking about it, something that bold didn't seem the style of the man who'd nearly blacked out rubbing up on you. Beckoning you onto the tennis court with two fingers and a wry smile did, however.

You fell into your usual position, hip turned and elbow curved on your side of the court. You waited for him to appear behind you, chest melding into the curve of your back.

It never came.

Art took long strides towards the net, vaulting it in one smooth motion. He ended up parallel to you, waiting with a ball and racquet in either hand.

The smile had left his face, a rather blank expression taking over as he sized you up. And there was that fear- knowing what it felt like to be on the wrong side of him.

This was going to hurt.

From the moment he pressed the ball to the neck of his racquet, it was all over. Your feet were never in one place for more than a second, your arms burned above you, your head permanently on a swivel.

Art didn't look like he'd broken more than a sweat.

You knew he had, you could see it in the neck of his shirt. But he didn't look it.

He looked calm, he looked in control, he looked-

Like he was enjoying himself.

For every rally that you managed, you thought you saw an inkling of pride set in his features.

For every serve that you missed, you knew you saw unbridled lust.

Not a point scored in your favour, you hit the ball towards him one last time before you collapsed to the turf. Flat on your back, reminiscent of your first lesson here.

You watched the clouds shift over your head, listening to your pulse thick and fast in your ears. Just underneath it, you could hear footfalls approaching.

No hurry, but impending.

Soon, the sun above you was eclipsed by Art Donaldson. His golden hair shone with the halo of light behind it.

Now this was God's favourite.

"You can't be giving up this easily?"

Forcing a laugh, you threw your arm up and over your eyes. "Wanna bet?"

Turns out he did- turns out Art struggled to do anything but win.

Somehow, you found it within yourself to stand back up. This time it was only a practice, you weren't brave enough to face off against him another round.

This was more your speed.

The hand that wasn't holding your elbow was curving around your front, the pleats of your tennis skirt lifting over his fingers. You felt a warm hand slowly moving across the front of your underwear.

Two fingers migrated south, pressing against the seam of you- he must've felt the pure heat radiating beneath his fingertips.

Turning your head even an inch, you found the curve of his nose pressing into your cheek.

"I didn't give up."

He hummed, the vibration rolled across your shoulders.

"Mmm, you didn't."

The hand sans-racquet dropped between your thighs to press his palm into your cunt. It was Art who flexed your fingers and cupped it.

"Where's my prize?"

There was no trophy, no podium, no medal.

But there was Art between your legs, slinging a knee over each shoulder like he might've been the real winner.

You'd never been inside the 'changing shed' behind the court, of course it was nicer than your actual home.

Your head made contact with the hard wood behind you, bench digging into your ass as you felt a hot mouth moving against the seat of your underwear.

Running your fingers through his hair, your gripped the ends of it- tugging him closer until you felt the flat of his tongue through the thin fabric.

Needy fingers tugged the ruined garment down your thighs, tucking him into the pocket of his shorts. You knew all too well that you'd never see them again.

You were sure Art would be seeing a lot of them.

His tongue ran up the split, one long stroke before you felt the curve of his nose press to your clit. The ridge of it moved as his tongue retreated back to your entrance.

With everything he had.

Your eyes had been rolling back in your head as you arched your back, the moment you were able to find a semblance of control- your gaze fell before you.

Naturally, Art was already looking up at you. Two hands splayed across each side of your hips as he pulled back to wrap his lips around your clit.

You couldn't help the hazy little smile on your face as you watched his eyes.

Utterly devotional.

The more you tugged on his hair, the hungrier he seemed. Pulling from the root seemed to spur him on, seemed to tell him 'good job' and he was responsive.

His tongue flicked beneath your clit, pressing it to his upper lip as he brought two fingers to your entrance. He stroked a couple times, making your hips twitch against him, before he sunk in to the last knuckle.

Turns out Art had a style about him. One he brought to the tennis court and, seemingly, to the floor of his changing shed.

The style was calculated.

Every move he made was engineered to get something out of you- a reaction, a whimper, a twitch. He was doing what he did best.

Playing a game.

Art struggled to do anything but win.

"Fuck- Mr. Donaldson."

"Art."

Even muffled against your cunt, you were good at following his orders. Even more so when he was the decider of your imminent orgasm.

You threaded your fingers in the sides of his hair, pulling his face flush against you so you could ride his mouth. Taking every last thing from him you could.

It drew the most pathetic moan you'd ever heard, straight out of his chest and hit you straight at your core. The burning coil tight within your stomach was unraveling quickly.

You heard the murmurings of words, among the blood rushing in your ears. Easing up just enough, you let him pull back to speak.

"Tell me this feels good, please."

Your chest thumped, the sight of Art helpless between your legs was one thing. Hearing him beg?

You might black out.

"Art- you feel so fucking good," Dragging him right back where you needed him, the tip of his tongue drove against your clit. "You're gonna' make me cum."

He whined.

A heady drawn-out sound that quite literally sent you over the edge. Your hips lifted off the bench, the heel of your foot digging into his back and making his whine turn into a whimper.

Your orgasm broke you apart until it felt like white-hot flame licking up your sides. Of course, Art never relented, drinking in everything you could give him- literally.

The moment you felt the peak begin to subside, the urge was ramping right back up. Like he knew what he was doing, his eyes locked back onto yours as he sucked at your clit.

He was going for gold.

A quick second orgasm hit, seemingly out of nowhere. Your thighs clenched around Art's head, his hands coming to each of them.

You relaxed yourself a bit, feeling like it might be too much- until you felt him pressing your thighs even harder to either of his ears.

Oh, ok.

Art Donaldson knew what he liked.

You physically had to push him off you, watching him fall back on his outstretched palms as you let yourself breathe for what felt like the first time.

Wet eyes, wet chin, chest rising and falling like he'd run a marathon- Art sat sprawled out before you like he'd stumbled upon an alter (he had).

Breathless, you gestured towards him. Your hand dropped a little as your eyes fell between his legs, wordlessly offering a deal.

A deuce.

His cheeks flushed, more so than they already were. His eyes fell an infinitesimal amount before he spoke up.

"Uh- I already have."

Of course he had. He makes that sound before he cums.

Instead, you heard him shuffle back onto his knees as he all but crawled towards you. He draped his upper half into your lap, head resting against the soft cotton of your skirt.

Coming off the other side of a high, the reality of your situation began to settle for you. Why they'd really called you here- what purpose you really served.

All you could do was gently stroke a hand across Art's head, feeling him go limp against you. Boneless, but not spineless.

He must've known you were going to speak, he must've heard the intake of breath or just felt you shift. He cut you to the chase- beat you to the punchline.

Art nuzzled his face further into your lap as you felt him mumble against your thigh.

"I can't lose- you."

[ponett]

I'm about to start working on my own RPG with RPG maker, but the part that intimidates me isn't any of the graphical stuff or even programming anything. It's math. How did you find a good progression of exp and stat boosts?

Here's my dark secret with SLARPG: I didn't do any proper math to determine the stat stuff. I didn't use any spreadsheets. It's aaaallllllllll vibes-based, baby. I'd just put numbers and basic stat curves into RPG Maker that seemed okay, and then I tweaked them back and forth through playtesting to get everything feeling how I wanted it to.

The party's stat growths have a somewhat convex slope—they're more significant early on and then slow down later. This way you're noticeably stronger against the lowest tier enemies after your first few levels, but the late game bosses won't vary wildly in difficulty if you're only level 27 instead of 30. (I did manually make sure the party's max HP and MP values would always be multiples of 5, though, just to keep the numbers nice and tidy.)

New areas will give the player new gear with noticeable stat boosts over their old stuff, and then enemies are balanced around that. I'd do battle tests and tweak the enemies for each area so that they felt like they were about as tough as I wanted them to be when pitted against a party with average gear for that part of the game. Feels too easy? Then I make the numbers bigger. And vice versa. And I'd keep making further tweaks after having other people playtest the game. But the further I got in development the better my balancing instincts got, so I had to make fewer balance adjustments than you might think.

The EXP curve, on the other hand... I'm pretty sure I just left default? I adjusted the pace of leveling more via enemy EXP than via the party's EXP requirements. There's a noticeable bump in the EXP enemies give in each new area, so if the player is underleveled when they hit a new area they'll catch up quickly. And of course bosses tend to give enough EXP to guarantee a level if you can beat them.

[agirlwithglam]

how to live a luckier life! ✧˖°

hiii! in this post i will be giving all my advice as to how i live a lucky life everyday & how to have LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME! everything that happens to me is so lucky it sometimes astounds me! this mini guide will include everything from mindset shifts, tips, and affirmations! <3 so grab a snack, a yummy beverage and get cozy!!

♡ a bit about me personally, i truly believe that i live an extremely lucky life. i dont live in a mansion, i don't own super rich stuff, i do actually feel left out with some friends, and i'm an extremely sensitive person so you can imagine how that must be. i'm just your average girl who goes to school, comes home, eats, etc. so PLEASE dont be fooled into thinking that you always need more or a certain thing or status, whatever it may be, to live a lucky life. i know its confusing, but just hear me out.

♡ MINDSET SHIFTS!

you get to choose what you define as "unlucky". this was THE BIGGEST thing that made me view myself as super lucky!! you actually get to CHOOSE that when something happens to you, do you choose to view it in a way where it could only ever be bad for you, or are you willing to see it as maybe you were divinely protected from something you had no idea about ... which leads me to my next point,

things happen FOR you, not TO you. of course, as i said earlier you can choose to see things in a lens like "oh of course that happened, the universe is out to get me" OR you can choose to see it as "that may have looked like it sucked but thank you god/ universe for protecting me and guiding me!! i may not know why that happened, but i trust that god/ universe has planned everything only for my greater good." because honey trust me, luck is all up there, in your mind. the exact same thing could happen to 2 people but its just their mindset and thinking process that will determine the quality of their life.

look at all that you do have!! GRATITUDE!! i *do not care* if this is a cliche or whatever BUT YOU BETTER LISTEN UP. (ahem, sorry.) but as i said at the top, gratitude will save you. yes, at first it will seem boring or useless or maybe even hard but once you start to train your brain focusing more on what you do have, the good, the happiness in your life, the more easily it will go there.

all about perspective. you may be complaining about trivial things right now like not winning in a game or not being where you want to be in life, but you have a roof over your head, an education, a family, a device, clean clothes, clean water & food. you’re already more fortunate than a lot of the population. so learn to be grateful with what you have right now because you never know if it will be taken away.

start training your brain to see things in a more positive light. it may not come so easily to you in the beginning, but the more you start realising and stopping yourself in the spiral of the lack mindset, and actually walk yourself through the whole process of changing your perspective on this thing, the more it will come naturally to you!

♡ BARBIE & NOVA:

just to clear everything up a bit, lets meet Barbie and Nova and see how they react to the same situation happening to them.

SITUATION 1: missing the bus oh no! Barbie and Nova had stumbled out their house and sprinted towards the bus but unfortunately, it had already left.

how Nova reacts: ugh, of course this happened! nothing ever good happens to me anyway. i swear the universe is actually like out to get me or something. i just wish i could get lucky just this once!

how Barbie reacts: dang it that sucks! buuutt.... what if i just got saved by a terrible accident? or what if when i went on that bus i would have seen or heard something that would make me feel even worse than how this feels right now? oh my, thank you god for protecting me!! i can't believe i was saved like that.

SITUATION 2: getting a high grade in class they just got their results back from a recent science test and they both got 98% !

how Nova reacts: YES!! FINALLY i get something right! finally i am lucky! oops i hope i don't jinx it

how Barbie reacts: omg yay!! im so happy! i really did deserve that, i worked really hard. thank you god!

do you see how no matter what the situation may be, Barbie is always grateful. she always thanks god/ the universe. on the other hand, Nova instead still believes that she was born unlucky so everything she thinks operates from that sort of place!

♡ PRACTICAL TIPS

focus on how you use your energy throughout the day. desperation reeks and will push any manifestations away. let go and let life. when you know you are a good and pure person who will put in the work and have faith and trust that everything will work out in the end, thats all you need to do

everyday, start consciously thinking of or writing down 3 things you’re grateful for. this is certainly a skill that you must practice frequently and once you do being grateful will come to you naturally!

‘proof portfolio’ when something happens to you that is lucky, write it down! (i write it down in my notes app) doesn’t matter if it’s really small or big, write it down so that when you don’t feel lucky you can look to this as proof otherwise!

♡ AFFIRMATIONS!

affirmations a great for drilling something into your mind to remind you that you already have everything you desire!! i recommend writing it down, repeating these in front of a mirror or even just to yourself but when you say it, say it with meaning. say it as if you’re actually speaking it into existence!

everything happens in my favour

everything happens for my greater good

i am so lucky

the universe works to give me the best life

i always attract lucky experiences

i attract opportunities

luck flows to me effortlessly

i am so grateful for everything i have

i always receive blessings

my life is filled with endless blessings

i am a magnet for miracles and joy

i trust that god has my back

god/ the universe wants to see me succeed!

my life is so lucky!!

everything i want flows to me effortlessly!

i glow from the inside out

i always attract abundance

i vibrate at a high frequency

[venmondiese]

ONE MISSING POINT

-ˋˏ| summary: Failing the class just for one point, and you ask Michael Gavey his help to pass the exam. Tutoring isn't his strenght, neither is yours.

✧ | Pairing: Michael Gavey x reader

✧ | word count: 2.8k

✧ | Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, public masturbation (m receiving), humilliation, Michael is a virgin and he doesn't last long.

It was practically a tradition that Mr. Bynes posted the results of the class in the (most important) headboard in the whole university, and people practically crowded around the single paper sheet searching for their grades and to see if they were at risk of failing the course entirely. If so, they had to do the mandatory exam which was by no means friendly. 

He isn’t as worried as people around him, trying to make his way in the crowd to see the paper. He had to awkwardly pass through some people crying over it before he could see the paper. 

He approved it all. He expected it, of course, since he always participated and was one of the few who understood something the professor said. Sure, he didn’t have straight 100%, but nothing lower than 80%, which was really good upon seeing some people had more than one 0. 

It was a relief, but again, expected. He shrugs and goes on with his life as he walks away, thinking of going to his dorm and annotating his grades to later on calculate his final average score. 

“Michael! Michael Gavey” a voice calls him, as he sets his feet on the grass. He turns around, seeing you walking closer to him, as quickly as you could. 

“Ehm… yes” he says, awkwardly, looking at you. 

You shared calculus and some other classes, and you were good. Not bright, exceptional or anything, but good. And you were so much better at other things, more social and bold things he doesn’t dare to do. 

“Hi… how did you do?” You ask, slightly out of breath as you try to be polite. 

“Ehm… fine, I guess” he doesn’t get why you talk to him now.

“You passed?” You ask tentatively. “I… I saw your grades, and it was awesome, really impressive…” You hesitate before adding “I am sorry, I know… it’s weird, but… You were like one of the few people who actually passed.”

Michael shrugs. as he nods. “I guess so.”

“And you see…” You say taking his arm to interlock it with hers, as you and your friends did when walking together. It was so womanly, he felt weird. Or maybe everyone did it and he didn’t know…? “I had good grades, I did well in that essay that everyone hated… But I had one test in which I got 40%, because I transferred badly one of the gross numbers, and before you ask, I did calculate it… But since I transferred it wrong, the final value was wrong”

“Ah…” he says, not sure what to say “That sucks”

It didn’t suck. To him, it was like a stupid mistake easily avoidable. 

“Well, I was one point away from pass the course, and I explained this to the professor but… didn’t listen, you know him, he said that one point is missing, so I have to give the exam, and I need like 20%, but still..., and now I desperately come to you to beg you to please help me and tutor me” she says, as she turns to look at him. 

He blinks. He didn’t do tutorings on his free time. He did them for extra money, for credits or whatever reason. 

“Please Mikey!” You say, grabbing his hands. “Please please please, I only needed one more point to pass the class, I know about the subject, and it was a silly mistake. You don't even have to teach me from zero, only... go over the things we studied and that... please!”

He isn’t willing to do this. He doesn’t want to do this, yet he is weak. After all, he is a man. And he isn’t blind, you are pretty. Like out-of-his-league pretty. And you are prettier closer.

“Fine…”

You lean to kiss his cheek with a smile, and you nod. “It’s a date then. Tomorrow in the library? Could it be at four?”

He blinks a few times, trying to process the whole thing. He was supposed to finish the semester quickly, and… now he is caught up trying to teach you so you don’t fail a course, all because his mind betrays him. 

So, he tries to do the whole ordeal as smoothly and quickly as possible. He doesn’t want to do this but whatever. At least you are not dumb on the matter, you know something. He has heard some of the answers you give in the classes, and they weren’t as bad as one would hope. 

He’s sitting at one of the study desks, right beside a large shelf, and the library was with a few other students, concentrated in their own thing. He brought his notes with him, even if it was illegible. He tries not to be impatient, as he checks the clock on his wrist. 

“Sorry for being late, I– I got caught in something and…” You say, and you were breathing a bit heavily. 

“No big deal…” he stutters, as his gaze darts down to your blouse. Logically, since summer was getting closer and closer, you wouldn’t be wearing a sweater, but he didn’t expect… Well, he didn’t know what he expected. 

Why was he being so weak around you?

“Sit, I have my notes to show you…” He says, and so you take a seat by his side as you curiously lean to check his notes. Surprisingly, or not so surprisingly, he was very neat in his handwriting, even if they looked like the handwriting of someone in the 1700s.

You are not such a bad learner, and he was rather enjoying teaching you after some time. You actually heard him, as he explained in depth how to have the correct answer for all, as he tries to address everything.  You asked good questions, and pointed at the mistakes he had given you, to see if you could identify them in an exercise. 

As close as you were, Michael could smell how your perfume was nice. It smelled sweet, but not so much that he would like to throw up. Besides, everytime you stared at him, he could feel a bit uneasy, since he got a bit nervous. Your gaze was deep, and he didn’t know what it meant. 

Clearing his throat, he writes a new problem for you to solve. He had done a lot when studying, so he copied one of his. He hopes that focusing on the study will help him to distract himself from the weird feelings around you. 

“Here, try this one” he says, handing the notebook to you. It is complex, but doable. 

He manages to explain really well, as he gets into the theme and all. You do the work, and slide it over for him to check it. 

“You have a girlfriend, Mikey?” You ask softly. 

He looks at you, before turning back to check the answer. “Eh… no” he mutters, trying not to be ashamed. 

You were actually great, you are very tidy when unfolding the exercise and actually took in his advice, he can see it. Yet, you make the same mistake, you took the gross value as the final one. 

He made a circle, and he was ready to explain. 

“He-Oh” he gasps, feeling your hand on his thigh. He was frozen. 

Maybe it fell onto it. Maybe it was by mistake, it was surely by mistake, there was no way it was intentional. And surely it was a mistake how you caressed his inner thigh so… slowly. 

“Oh, did I get it wrong?” You ask, looking at him as if you didn’t have your hand at his thigh.  

He felt his head doing a short circuit, as if trying to understand what this meant. Was he imagining things? He surely must be. 

“Y-Yes, here… here you took the gross value…” he mutters pathetically, he was confused, he didn’t know what was happening. He wasn’t complaining, at all, but what does that mean?

What did it mean that you had your hand on his thigh? Surely, it was something… reasonable. 

“I’ll re-do it” you say, taking the notebook. And you didn’t take your hand away. 

He was frozen. This can't be happening. He's supposed to be helping you with your studies, not... not whatever this is. And yet, his body is betraying him, his skin tingling under your touch, his pants beginning to feel uncomfortably tight. 

He grips on the edge of the table, looking at the ceiling of the library. Suddenly, he is very aware of his surroundings, looking around as if everyone knew that your hand was sliding up as you did the exercise. Women surely can multitask…

“Eh, well, now… we can use the formula… you-you know it” he says, his throat feeling dry as he tries not to whimper. 

“Yeah, yeah. Like the rosary.” You say with a confident nod.

“Yeah… so, what’s the next step?” He prompts you, as your hand is higher and higher, and he is starting to lose his mind. 

“Replace the values, a… with this, and b…” your hand brushes higher and he lets out a little whimper, thinking you were about to stroke his cock… yet it doesn’t happen. It’s a pathetic sound he emits, and he gets red after it. “With this…”

He sees you replace the values, rewriting the formula, ready to be used.

“Right?” You ask, with one of your sweet smiles as if you didn’t know what was happening. 

“Eh, yeah… yeah, that…” he says, trying not to sound that pleased, even if he starts to feel the arousal pool on his stomach.

He starts to feel himself straining against his pants. It was painfully arousing, and he tried to play it cool. He didn’t want for you to notice, as you caressed his inner thigh.

“I… I need a break” he says suddenly, looking at you. 

You look at him a bit pouty even, as he grips on the edge of the seat trying to breathe in and breathe out. “But I am learning” you say to him “I really am”

You were driving him insane. He didn’t even know if he should address the elephant in the room. Maybe he’ll say something about it, and you’ll stop, be disgusted and leave. 

But he tries to keep inside his whimpers, since the library was the worst place ever to do this. Everyone quiet and it’s open for anyone to see. 

“I think… I..” He hesitates, falling to being able to finish a sentence. He moans softly, feeling your hand brush against his notorious erection, and he can’t bear it anymore. “Ah, please…” 

Michael was blushing, embarrassed of it all as he tries not to move his hips to follow the touch of your hand, since it isn’t where he really needs. How could he be so weak? His cock wasn’t even being touched now, but he felt so dizzy already. Maybe it was because, okay, he had never been with anyone else, but it was… embarrassingly little time to be so… needy. 

When he feels your hand on the tent of his pants, he whimpers, the sound too loud and filthy that his left hand goes instantly to his mouth, covering it to mute himself before he does another embarrassing thing that gives them away. 

“Y-You.. You have to stop” Michael murmurs, the words muffled against his palm as he looks at you, glasses sliding through his nose slightly. He was so flustered, he looked cute. 

“Why?” You ask in a pout, not wanting to. 

“I can’t– I need…” He tries to say, to make a coherent thought as your hand moves to follow the shape of his erection. It sends shivers on his spine and he practically melts on the seat as his eyes are rolled back in pleasure. How could it feel so good? “I… I… We can’t…”

He seems so confused with his own thoughts. “We can…” You murmur, looking around as nobody was actually watching them. “If you really want me to stop… I’ll stop”

Michael doesn’t want you to stop. He really didn’t. But he didn’t want to get caught, it would be embarrassing. 

“We are in public” he says, his eyes searching yours. 

“Yes, I know” you say, not stopping the strokes on his cock above his clothes “But look at how much you like it” 

He’s already made a small, wet patch at the front of his pants. Oh, god, he thinks. He looked away, it felt embarrassing, his face feeling hotter as embarrassment creeped into his gut alongside pleasure. 

He liked it, but he was trembling with a mixture of emotions, and he didn’t know what to think. He was so close too…

“Please…” He begs senselessly, he doesn’t even know why he is begging. “I don’t wanna make a mess…”

Your hand touches him with the clothes in between, but the fabric of his light brown pants was thin, and it felt almost delicious. He would hump your hand if you two weren’t in a library. 

“You are making a mess…” You coax him softly, as he tenses his shoulder and falls slightly against yours, as his body was trembling with arousal. 

“I don’t wanna stain my pants” He murmurs embarrassed, in a little voice as he feels his balls tighten up as your hand insists on the head of his cock, stroking it through the fabric.

“It’s hot” you murmur back to him, and your hand is on the wet patch “And when you cum, I’ll feel it here”

He can’t form a proper sentence as he feels you hand caressing his dick, he felt the wetness on the tip of his cock, and even if it was so unlike him, he found himself so aroused. He is on the verge of cumming on his pants, just from the touch of a woman. Damn, you aren’t even touching his cock directly. 

He felt like a teen, needy and so hormonal. He wasn’t like this fromages ago, and he finds himself leaning on you, his forehead against your shoulder as he whimpers softly, his hips searching your touch as he is close. 

The thought of cumming in his pants, making a mess was both humiliating and arousing, as his body tense with each stroke. “I can't… i… I'm going to…” 

His hand goes to cover his own mouth as he reaches his peak, a strangled moan coming from his throat and his hand muffles the whimpers he lets out. He can feel his cock spurting cum into his underwear and trousers. He doesn’t want to call attention, but he cums so hard, his body basically slumps back in his seat as he feels his balls tighten with each rope of cum that his cock leaks. 

You are awfully quiet afterwards, moving your hand away as you clean it and he tries to gain his breath, feeling dizzy already and so pleased. He wants to hide his face in shame, and the other wants to beg you to do it again. 

“I’m sorry” he murmurs.

“Don’t be” you whisper back to him, looking at his wet spot on his crotch. “To me, it was amazing. You definitely made one of my fantasies come true”

He blushes, he feels very self conscious all of the sudden, and he makes sure no one in the library paid attention to them and what they were doing. He moves slightly as if trying to cover up the wet patch on his jeans. 

“You enjoyed it?” You ask him, not pushing him too hard.

“Yeah…” He admits, slightly embarrassed but also very much pleased. 

You look at the forgotten notebooks, and then to him, as he accommodates on the seat and moves his hair slightly as if that would make him go unnoticed by everyone else.

“If it is worth anything, your tutoring did help me tons” you say, taking your notebooks together to save them in your pack. 

He is glad that he could help. Maybe this was your way of repaying? He couldn’t know or decipher it. He takes his things and saves them up in his bag as well. He wanted to go to his dorm and take a shower, and put on pajamas and think about this. 

“I’m not great with words…” He starts, his tone hesitant but trying to overcome it. “But… Thank you. I really… Hm. It was cool”

You smirk, nodding slightly as you appreciate his words. 

“A bit riské” you tease him playfully.

“Yeah…” he chuckles softly, scratching the back of his neck. “I am a mess”

As he adjust the glasses on his nose, you hum, “Well, nobody really cares but you and me”

“I can’t believe we did… that… in here…” He mumbles, dumb founded. “And I was… so… I completely lost it…”

“Do girls usually make you… lose it?” you ask in a whisper. “Or do you last longer, and I happen to have magical hands?”

He blushes to the blunt question, looking anywhere but to your face as he avoids answering. “Well, um…” he doesn’t want to admit his lack of any experiences with girls “Girls don’t…. touch me like that” he says in a whisper. “So I can’t say…”

You didn’t judge, looking at him, and you nodded.

“Well, next time we’ll see”

Next time. He looks at you with eyes slightly wide, as he tries not to stutter his words. “Next time?”

“Obviously” You say smiling to him. “If I pass the exam, we are doing it without the pants” You say smugly “And… more”

He was so lucky you missed one point to pass the course. 

[snowsinterlude]

🐇 - rich, stupid, dumb girl and her nerd boyfriend.

(coriolanus snow x bimbo reader)

summary: you loved your boyfriend just too much not to let him edge you in public

c.w: in public, reader is a bimbo, edging, fingering (f. recieving), oral (m. recieving), overstimulation, a bit of praising, dom coryo, at school sex, smut, nsfw, humiliation, explicit content, slightly degrading

mascara running down your eyes, lipstick kisses on his hips, abdomen and neck, your boyfriend had his hand on your head as he frowned at the pleasure and the perfect sight of having you bobbing your head on his dick.

your boyfriend was such a cute nerd, always giving you the right answers to tests that you were too stupid to answer for yourself. always kissing your lips behind the books shelves. always putting you on your knees and letting his fingers open your mouth as you looked up at him, too whiny cause he tried to get you to understand something your stupid brain couldn't bare.

you were just another stupid brain dead girl who's head was good but not in the right ways- he loved the way you eagerly sucked on his dick, getting him coated in your saliva and kissing his tip as if it was the most precious thing of your life. it was just curious to see someone so dumb using it's inteligence to reproduction purposes. of course, both of you didn't mean to reproduct, but if you were to have a son or daughter, you had to pray that he/she would be just as pretty as you- but not as inteligent.

the soft grunts he let out of his mouth were the prettiest thing you could hear. no matter how many soap operas your father made you watch, the prettiest sounds were made by his throat.

you didn't have a gag reflex. every ex boyfriend you had usually would go nuts because of it. but coryo was different.

your sweet, precious, nerdy boyfriend, was bigger than your average-sized-dick exes. you didn't care- i mean, what is a bit of gagging when his dick is hitting the back of your throat? it was delicious having the chance to taste him.

that's why you were on your knees now, under the library desk as he read (or tried) to read the books in front of him. your mouth was too eager, you seemed hungry for him, pillow plump lips with smeared lipstick engulfing all you could of his inches, every single one could fit into your throat- fuck the gag reflex. you wanted him to the brim.

your thinking was delayed by his sweet words, the sweet tone of his voice cussing you for being so good at sucking a dick but being so horrible with mathematics.

"god, you're so pretty, doll. how can you be so hungry for dick?" he asked, and you moaned against his dick, incapable of giving him any proper answers. "keep going like that, okay? once i'll cum- fuck, we'll come back to studying."

"'don't wanna" you said, muffled by his cock.

"i didn't asked if you want, baby. you will." he said, pulling you by your hair to get you away from his dick. he kissed you, lips and tongue on yours. "now, sit by my side, okay?"

and you obeyed, pouting and trying to clean the lipstick stains off your lips.

his hand went to your thigh after he put his dick back inside his clothes. "c'mon, tell me. do you know the answer to that?" he pointed to a question on the book, something about maths. your worst grades were in this one class.

"i don't." you said, pouting. "c'mon, cory! let me make you cum." you begged, cleaning off the mascara stains now. "don't be such a meanie." you said, blinking your doe eyes.

"nope. answer at least one of those." and you tried, really. but then his fingers were on your damped panties going up and down your slick and you couldn't seem to think anymore. how mean of him.

"i-i don't know, coryo- stop that, if you keep on edgin' then i won't be capable of answerin'-" you slurred, almost crying from the way he was teasing you. he knew you couldn't answer things like that. not in that state.

"c'mon, doll. you know better than that." he said, and you melted almost right away.

"i don't. i swear!" you said, feeling him pull your panties to the side so he could have a better access to you.

"well, i guess you won't be cummin' today. what a shame." he said, thrusting his fingers slowly into you, curling them inside your tight cunt.

"please don't- coryoo, let me cum, please!" you begged, awkwardly bucking against his fingers only to end up mewling into his sudden kiss.

"i kissed you just because you're too loud. you know that the library doesn't permit such lewd actions of love as to kissing."

"you're f..fingering me."

"nuh-uh, i'm trying to teach you the basics of mathematics by pushing you to an edge." he said, kissing your cheek. "but if you're not answering, then maybe i should just stop."

he threatened to pull his fingers out of you, which didn’t happen due to your relentlessly bucking to his fingers. "n-no, i'll answer it! i will!-"

"then do it." he said, his thumb on your clit. "what is the second most read book in the world?"

"d...dom quixote?" you dared, mewling into his fingers, noticing how wet you were by the sounds your pussy was making on him. he gave you a proud smile, getting quicker with his fingers and promptly taking them off you when a teacher passed close by.

he sucked on those fingers, humming about how good you tasted. "such a sweet girl, it isn't even difficult to tell that you're the sweetest in taste too." he said, adjusting your pantiesnas you breathed heavily.

he's such a meanie. spent the whole day teasing you. fingering, grinding, humping, he didn’t got quiet until he accompanied you home, and now, your hands were on the wall as he pounded into you, making sure you felt every single inch of his dick inside you.

"c-cory, you'll let me cum, right? you spent the whole day- fuck! t-teasing me, edging me!" you slurred.

he nodded, kissing your neck. "promise i'll let you, doll. just keep yourself quiet. you don't want your parents to see what a slut you are, do you?"

"n-no, i don't!" you answered, holding all your moans by biting your bottom lip.

"princess," he called you "you don't need to stop moaning. just be good and less louder okay?" you nodded as an answer. the moans you let out after that, were soft grunts, hard to be held as he kept on pounding into you, even harder when his hand found your cunt again, his index on your clit.

"st-stop, coryo. it's gettin' harder to-" another moan, this time due to how he pinched your clit. "s-stop!"

"oh you want me to?"

"n-no, but-"

"no but's. you know you want it. tell me, doll. what do you want?"

"c-cum. want to cum." you begged. "please."

"hm,, i don't really want to end it right now." his pace became quicker; his lips on your shoulder and his words on your ear.

"please. just this once." you tried again, your cunt tightening around him as he pounded slowly inside you.

it was torturing. you could feel your core clenching, his dick throbbing inside you and still he didn’t want to make you cum. he was taking you over the edge.

with that in mind for the next reason you would fight with him, you trembledand squirmed when his dick kissed your uterus just the right way- when he hit the sweetest spots in your cunt that just him knew about.

you cried your eyes out, bucking against him and letting him bury himself into you- it was just too good not to let him do it. and then you were ready to cum all of your pent-up sexual teasing over his dick, and that's what you did, letting his cock be coated with your cum and moaning as you felt his cum going directly into you. rope after rope, spurt after spurt, you were filled up completely by his cum, and he quickly adjusted your panties in the right direction, kissing your temple.

"be a doll and sleep with those hm? full." he said, tapping your ass and kissing you goodbye.

being stupid with those thoughts of yours, you quickly forgot about what he said, and he knew, somehow- because on the next day he fucked you and stuffed his seed into you, he made sure to not let anything leak when he shoved your panties into you.

"don't forget about it this time." and he kissed you again, this time, you oveyed promptly and slept with his cum inside your cunt..

[felixbit]

orange peel theory

── flufftober day fourteen, masterlist tbd han jisung x gn!reader, w. 0.5k

It was a pretty average day, all things considered. You'd been home cleaning up and doing general chores. Your boyfriend had been out at work, but you didn't mind some alone time without him there to distract you from your tasks.

It was midday when you got a text from Felix. He'd sent you a TikTok with a message saying 'you should get jisung to do this'. Opening it, you found it awfully curious.

"The Orange Peel Theory: if your partner is willing to peel an orange for you without judgment, they care deeply and might be the one."

After a few minutes of consideration, off you went to the store to pick up some oranges. You'd been planning on going soon anyways, so you found it as good of an excuse as any.

The trip down to the store was nice, putting on Jisung's playlist. You didn't get everything you'd usually get from the store, wanting Jisung to be around to make sure you didn't forget anything. But, you grabbed a handful of fruits, including a bag of oranges.

You'd made it home and realized Jisung had already arrived. Smiling at him when you walked in the door, you waved. "Oh, didn't know you'd get here before me."

"Before you?" Jisung looked you up and down, noticing the bags of groceries and nodding, "Ah, yeah. Got done a little early today and thought I'd come home. What'd you pick up?"

"Oh, just a few things," You shrugged and placed the bags on a nearby counter top, "Not too much because you weren't out with me. But just some essentials since we were running low."

Jisung nodded, standing and walking over to you. He peered through the bags a little, inspecting and giving a little thumbs up of approval. "Good picks."

An idea popped into your head. You reached into the bag full of fruit, pulling out an average-sized orange. "Yeah, I think I'm gonna snack on one of these before dinner. Could you peel this for me?"

Without a second thought, Jisung reached over and took the orange from your hands. His fingers began to work in peeling it, looking up at you again. "What do we think for dinner tonight?"

You watched as he spoke to you, eyes only flitting down periodically to check and make sure he wasn't messing anything up. He didn't even acknowledge the request, just doing it without question. You felt your heart swell.

"I'm not really sure," You shrugged, trying to keep your voice nonchalant, "I picked up some things, but.. honestly, I don't really feel like cooking. Maybe we can go out and get a bite to eat?"

"Neither do I," Jisung nodded in agreement. He handed the peeled orange back to you, walking over to the trash can and tossing the peel in, "Do you want me to pick something?"

You watched as he walked over to the sink, giving his hands a quick wash before coming back over. It took you a second to remember to reply. "Yeah, that'd be great."

Jisung seemed to have picked up on you staring dumbfounded for a second and tilted his head, brows furrowing. "What? Did I say something?"

Knowing you were caught, you laughed. "No, you didn't say anything. Just.. you passed."

"Passed? Passed what?"

"The orange peel test," You smiled, popping a slice into your mouth and enjoying the sweet flavor.

[butteronabun]

i just want you to take me where your heart is

a diluc ragnvindr x female reader highschool au.

overview: and who could possibly be the golden boy’s type?

wc: 2k

notes: imagine diluc with his hair down in this one. and also. diluc’s father hasn’t d-worded in this au so he’s the happy diluc we all know and love before shit hit the fan ( we still love him even after shit hit the fan tho )

Diluc Ragnvindr is prim and proper. Chivalrous and well–mannered. The star athlete of the Favonious Birds. Intelligent, a leader, and a great speaker. 

And of course, he’s every girl’s dream guy. 

“. . . And yet, he’s still single,” Kaeya remarks with a smirk, and his friends around him laugh in unison. 

Currently, he’s eating lunch with them in the campus’ outdoor park — a place of tranquility where some students prefer to hang. Instead of being involved in the hustle and bustle of what goes on in their cafeteria, be it your average food fights or impromptu musicals incited by a certain twin–braided man, said outdoor park was a better option for these lads to unwind.

“You know, I used to think that he and Jean would look good together,” a friend of Kaeya says, and they all turn to him. “She’s just like him: elegant and grades conscious. Takes part in student governments and volunteers to school events. Plus, she’s drop dead gorgeous! With her brilliant blue eyes and smooth blond hair, oh, if I was Diluc - I would not hesitate to date her!”

“Nah, I think Lumine is better,” They all glance next to their right. “She’s sporty, and she can definitely keep up with Diluc. She aces her tests without any difficulty, despite doing a part–time job every night with her brother in a nearby coffee shop, and it’s rumored that she makes the best drinks! Moreover, she’s a beauty. That’s why she keeps on receiving loads of love letters during the Windblume Festival every year, so it will not be surprising if she’ll be getting them again!”

Ah, yes. The Windblume Festival is fast approaching—now that January is about to end, in the next two weeks, Brightcrown High School’s air will surely be filled with nothing but endless romance.

Kaeya gazes up above, where a giant tree shadows their figures with its bright green leaves. The sunlight filters through the gaps and he basks into this moment of peace. He then adds playfully, “And Diluc will be busy tidying up his locker once more, because it will be filled with chocolates and letters.”

“What?! Does he even eat them? Tell him that he can donate, you know!”

Kaeya huffs, “My brother won’t even give me a piece, what makes you think he’ll hand you one?” 

He remembers the time that Diluc had been so overwhelmed by the plethora of sweets, and yet seemed so appreciative about it. Father was just proud of the older son’s popularity. Kaeya offered to help him consume them all as a joke, but Diluc shook his head vigorously, saying that he shouldn’t, and that “they all worked hard for this”, and it was right that he only eat them.

How adorable of him, really.

Plus, Diluc even read the letters one by one. No matter how cringe or sickeningly sweet they were, Diluc read them all. And Kaeya wasn’t even shocked that there was no judgment in his face. 

Diluc was just grateful for the gifts. Bashful, indeed, and sometimes he was not sure what to feel, but he was grateful.

“So, Diluc. Who will it be? Jean or Lumine?” Kaeya questions with a grin that afternoon, when the Windblume Festival is finally in full swing. 

Diluc raises his head from the paper he’s answering — it’s a survey given to him by one of the juniors for their research subject — and frowns. “What brought this on? Why am I suddenly choosing between two friends?”

“Oh come on, you weren’t even listening!” Kaeya pouts, before sitting on a nearby desk. 

After exploring the premises for some snacks and attractions, the brothers decided to stay inside an empty classroom for a while. They can hear some cheers from the outside, loud declarations of love and squeals from the majority, that surely Diluc thinks would be a delight for Kaeya, but has opted to accompany him instead.

“I was.” Diluc purses his lips, and hears laughter echoing through the halls as students run and get chased by disciplinary officers. “You and your friends were talking about the girls and I. I just don’t understand why you want me to choose. And be careful, you might fall. Don’t move so much.”

“Cooome on, Diluc,” Kaeya groans as he leans, “We’re sixteen, aren’t we? Father says we’re at that age, after all. By that, I meant, where we’re all supposed to be dating and courting?”

Diluc feels his cheeks slightly heat up from the words that escaped from Kaeya’s mouth. He returns to his duty of answering the survey. ( As if he needed to, when he was already done. ) “And I told you countless times that I’m not interested. Need I remind you that I don’t have the time for it. You know I still have to prepare for college, and that I have to keep an eye on my varsity scholarship, and—“

“Yadda, yadda, yadda——“

“Don’t yadda me, Kaeya. That’s just how it is.”

“You seriously aren’t interested?” Kaeya prods.

Diluc shoots him a firm stare. “Absolutely positive.”

And Kaeya sticks his tongue before hopping from the desk and making his way to the door. “Fine. But don’t think you’re off the hook just yet.” Diluc watches his retreating back. “I’ll make sure to find you a lady, and it’ll be your type, and you’ll fall in love.”

Kaeya pulls the door open. He confidently says, “It’ll be inevitable, Diluc. Inevitable!”

A small smile creeps its way to Diluc’s lips, finding this all amusing. “Then I wish you the best of luck.”

Kaeya huffs, not liking that Diluc seems so smug and unbothered by it, then leaves.

Diluc waits for a while. And waits. 

And waits, until he blinks, checks his survey, before sighing heavily. 

A brilliant shade of red coats his pale cheeks, and he buries his face in his hands.

Dating. Courting. The type of lady Diluc likes? Yeah. Diluc already has found his type. 

( Kaeya doesn’t have to know yet. He hates lying, but it’s too soon. Maybe someday. If Diluc can face his feelings first. )

So, hear, hear! He’s not missing out, in spite of what his friends say.

This person is not what everyone expects; it’s not the formal and polite Jean who can deliver a speech eloquently, nor the radiant and loyal Lumine that they want to push toward his direction.

Instead. . .it’s someone else.

And that someone else dropped a bowl of soup to Principal Varka’s white slacks. That someone else triggered the anger of a certain math teacher because she climbed the roof so carelessly during class to fly a kite. That someone else got into detention and instead of writing I’ll be good from now on one hundred times, spent the day with the others in that session to tell ghost stories.

That someone else was you, who wasn’t like Jean or Lumine. That someone else was you—the you, who was his exact opposite, and yet managed to capture his heart. 

You are one of Mond High’s known troublemakers, and apparently, he has fallen victim to your charms.

Maybe it began when you were just snickering with your buddies in the library despite the librarian‘s persistent shushing. He was solving his quadratic formula worksheets back then, and he was impressed that even if you were fooling around, you were in the library to actually learn more about the cardiovascular system, with the help of a fellow friend. 

(“I will be proud to say that the one that carries the blood away from the heart is. . . arteries!”

“You’re right!”

“Yay!!”

“Shh!”) 

Or maybe it began when you witnessed that one student who humiliated himself by accidentally slipping on the wet floor in the cafeteria, and everyone sans Diluc laughed.  Then you came to his rescue, marching in the middle with all the attention on you. 

You didn’t offer your hand. 

But you purposefully slipped instead, and even had the most embarrassing fall. The cafeteria became noisier because of you, and Diluc, baffled at first, found himself chuckling soon after.

Actually, no. 

He didn’t fall in love with you during those times. These were the times in his life that led to this one very moment—

When the Favonious Birds lost the tournament, Diluc was sulking in the playground, all by himself. He took the blame despite Kaeya and his friends denying it, but he knew better. If Diluc had just made it quickly to the ring, their team could’ve been victorious and brought the trophy home.

But alas, it was just an if. It didn’t happen.

Then, something wet drops in his hair. Then his arm. And nose. It was about to rain, and Diluc just grunted, not caring one bit. He was sure Adelinde would make a fuss about it, or his father would pester him for his carelessness, but he wasn’t in the mood to leave his spot just yet.

Let the rain wash away his sorrows.

Pitter–patter. Pitter–patter. Pitter–patter. Pitter–patter. 

“Don’t match with the gloomy weather now.”

Diluc slowly lifted his head, wondering who spoke and what covered his pathetic and hunched form that was wallowing in despair. And his eyes grew wide when he saw you, almost bending with an umbrella in hand, sheltering you and him from the incoming downpour.

You smiled down at him, “There it is. Keep your head up, King! Your crown is falling.” 

And Diluc’s heart skipped a beat the same time a thunder rumbled from the distance. “W–what. . . ?”

You continued, “I don’t know what got you all so sad, but everything will be fine soon! I’m sure of it! After all, once the rain passes, there will be a rainbow!” Then, you grabbed his cold and even bigger hand, and Diluc, at that split second, felt the static. You didn’t even react. But your hand was warm, and Diluc’s chest was, too. 

Dumbfounded, he let you guide his fingers. It only came to him long after that he was gripping a metal handle. “Have my umbrella! I hope this will make your day a little better, and if it doesn’t. . . well, at least I tried. But I have to go now!”

You quickly put the hood over your head when the rain grew stronger. Diluc, concerned over your well–being, finally regained his composure to protest. “But what about you— hey. . . !”

He watched you run and wave, bidding farewell. “You don’t have to return it to me! It’s all yours! I really have to go, so see you, maybe? Bye!”

“But. . . !”

And Diluc. . . Diluc could catch you if he wanted. He could sprint and return the umbrella to its rightful owner, but he didn’t. 

Instead, he remained in his position. 

And his heart— oh, his heart. His heart couldn’t stop pounding that day.

You are Diluc’s first love. 

That is established. 

The thing is, this is a secret. No one knows yet. Just him.

He’s never felt this towards anyone before. You are his first.

( And hopefully the last. )

You’re different from everyone else. You’re different from him. You have your own unique methods of doing things. You have your own way of paving your path. You are the artist to your own canvas; the director of your own film.

You are like the sun. You brighten everyone’s day with your presence, and you also shine, because Diluc can’t keep his eyes off of you whenever you’re in the vicinity.

He knows that this is really an unexpected outcome – him, who was definitely out of your league and vice versa, catching feelings for someone like you.

( Someone like you who is free in life, and Diluc wants to feel that, even just for a bit, with you. )

But like before, all he can do is merely daydream and wonder about the what–ifs. What will it be like to be your friend? Will he experience all the shenanigans that you ensue? Will he also fly a kite with you? Will he get into detention?

Yet this is unbecoming. Improper. Inappropriate for someone like him—for the eldest son of the Ragnvindrs and for the next heir of the winery. He can’t indulge into lighthearted affairs or mischief. He’s supposed to be responsible and disciplined. A man of propriety.

So all he can ever do is have these thoughts. Just thoughts. He has more important matters to attend to, like college applications, training, lessons in handling the in winery business. . . 

And . . . there’s no way that you’ll approach him again, right? 

Diluc knows to himself that can do it instead, you know. He can approach you if he must, but . . . he’s just so shy. 

And a lot of people are always around you. So who is he to burst your bubble, when you seem so finally content with your life?

Diluc peeks from the open windows and sees couples holding hands and sharing kisses. Briefly, he imagines what it would be like to experience romantic love during Windblume.

He feels his cheeks steam again. 

Kaeya will surely have a field day once he sees his older brother being lovesick like this.

You really are one of Mond High’s troublemakers. And it’s not only because you prank your friends or piss off the teachers, but you make it hard for him to focus. 

Just thinking of you never fails to make his heart perform somersaults.

He is Diluc Ragnvindr. Prim and proper. Chivalrous and well–mannered. The star athlete of the Favonious Birds. Intelligent, a leader, and a great speaker. 

He is not every girl’s dream guy. 

Because unfortunately, the girl he likes doesn’t even see him in a romantic light.

[amoeganism]

HIT BRAKE! sae itoshi

(Sae needs to practice his goals and you… driving)

~3.8k words, humor, fluff, angst if you grab a magnifying glass, use of soccer instead of football (i have too much pride to do that), theyre so polar opposite they unfortunately come full circle and match each others freak

Sae Itoshi returned to Japan with several new things under his belt:

The ability to speak spanish (although his grammar structure can use some help from time to time)

An insane growth spurt

Probably shell shock syndrome

And the scariest new update to a chronic Resting Bitch Face that you had the displeasure of seeing thrown your way when you accidentally ran over his ball driving home. Maybe this is why most Japanese people rely on public transport instead of using their licenses

TWO was the number of times you had failed your driver’s test. Yes, you could always use the bus or ask your friends for a ride, but college doesn’t start for another few weeks and you’re determined by pure stubbornness to be driver certified before starting school. You think you’re doing pretty good so far: no accidents, no being pulled over, no getting cursed, and no one loudly complaining about your skills (no one has trusted you to drive them). The only thing you had left to master was parallel parking. 

It was a legacy in your family to be horrible at city parking.

One of your earliest memories was in the backseat of a rental car in a foreign country while your mother tried to park on the side of the street, only to get honked at by cars and drive against the flow of vehicles in a one-way zone. 

A bag of groceries lie in the trunk of your car as you drive to your family’s home. Humming along to the song softly playing through the radio, you slow down as you near the residential area, confident that this drive will end without a single thing gone wrong. Without speaking, you jinx your thoughts as you jolt when your car goes over a bump and a loud wheeze follows it. Turning your head to the side, your entire body freezes and your eyes go wide upon seeing the pissed off glare of Sae Itoshi, the infamous Japanese soccer player who just returned from Spain with a sexy tan.

With a shaky hand, you roll down your window and immediately start tumbling over your rushed apologies. You don’t even understand what you’re saying but you hope that Itoshi somehow understands. When he doesn’t react, which is what you expected but it hurts nonetheless, you immediately shut up and tumble out of your car before getting on your knees and seeing what you ran over. 

Your hand reaches and pulls out a deflated soccer ball, the entire thing flat with a large hole on the side from when it got run over by your car. You almost feel inclined to inflate it with the tears that are about to spill out of your eyes but the only realistic and socially acceptable choice was to give it to Itoshi and once again, apologize but with words that he and the average person can understand. 

Itoshi mumbles a “it’s okay” before taking the ball (can you even call it that?) a once-over. “I have more at home, I’ll just throw it out.”

“Holy shit I’m so sorry about that I can buy you a new one just please don’t sue me I can’t afford a good lawyer, I’m in student loan debt.”

“...why would I sue you?” he asks, his face slightly scrunched up in confusion. It’s not much different from his normal expression, just a slight crease of his brows but it makes all the difference.

“I didn’t mean to assume that you’re gonna sue me, please don’t sue me for assuming!” You think that you should begin to pack your bags and take out a loan to move to another country. It would be easier to be a criminal than to deal with a conversation with a guy who multiplies your humiliation. “I just thought that you might get your super prestigious and rich and wealthy and prosperous and exquisitely-copious-in-currency soccer team on my ass ‘cause I ran over one of their balls,” you nervously rambled. Your face heats up at every word and one Itoshi divides into two Itoshis and two Itoshis split into four.

“Are you schizophrenic? I thought you were normal back in middle school,” sixty-eight Itoshis say in unison.

Your body freezes, the now one hundred twenty-eight Itoshis all morphing back into one. “Wait, we went to middle school together?”

“Uh, yeah,” he blinks, this time looking even more awkward than you. “We were in the same class for two years straight and I sat next to you the semester before I left. I think I would remember the kid who slept through each period but still got all the answers right when called on.”

“Oh!” You perk up at the recollection of a scrawny red-haired boy from five years ago, one who would try to not-so-discreetly look at your worksheet answers and peek at your notes during class. “You’re the boy who would always copy off my work. I do remember you!”

“Is that all you remember about me?” If Itoshi were any other person, you’d say he looked uncomfortable but all he did was tilt his head a little more to the left and shift on his feet. 

“I mean, the only reason why you remember me is ‘cause I saved your academics without even knowing. Don’t think I didn’t hear our teacher whispering ‘good job’ to you while returning our tests and how you suddenly moved up in our class rankings.”

“Well you didn’t bother to hide anything when you were snoozing away so whose fault really is it?”

“You were gonna leave for Spain, anyway!” you point out, remembering being pissed off when hearing the reason why your seatmate left was because he was some kind of sport prodigy, basically having his entire future as a star secured at the age of thirteen.

“My parents would’ve killed me and held me by my feet if I flunked.” Itoshi grimaced, kissing his teeth and brushing his hair back as it had fallen over his eyes. His cheeks had returned to its usual color, removing the red flush of running and exhaustion.

“Huh, I guess I should be credited for your success. Spain should thank me.”

“Are we forgetting that I’m the one who plays the sport?” Sae’s voice came out harsher than he intended and cut through the playful atmosphere by the first syllable. His demeanor appeared unchanged but he felt himself tense. 

Conversation had never been strong for Sae, only ever talking when he needed to and the most of his words going to his teammates on the field or his little brother. His success was a sensitive subject whether he liked to admit it or not. Spain served as an eye-opener to the teenage boy, being left in a country where no one looked like you and no one spoke your language. The only thing he could rely on was a translator he barely trusted and the expressions of the people around him. 

When you don’t respond, Sae observes your face, noticing how you began to fidget with your fingers just as you had when you first stepped out of the car. You weren’t his previous coaches; you were just a former classmate who he happened to run into, or rather, you drove into. It was too late to laugh and he felt slightly guilty at freaking out someone that wasn’t his brother, an opponent, or a bothersome news anchor. 

“If you want to repay me for the ball, meet me at the sports store nearby.”

“Sorry, but I don’t really know where you’re talking about,” you sheepishly reply, wanting to sink more into the ground with every word. You decide that talking to athletes is more tiring than playing an actual sport.

“Give me your number, I’ll send you the address.”

You hand him your phone, hoping he doesn’t comment on the horrendously cracked screen protector that you had been telling yourself to replace for months. At the same time, you also want him to notice the small possibility of him offering to buy you a new one, taking advantage of rich people or whatever. “I can pick you up if you don’t mind.”

“Should I trust you to drive me?” he asks, carefully looking between you and your car with his turquoise eyes as if analyzing his opponents on a field, only, this was a residential street and the only other player was a balding middle aged man walking his dog. 

“I mean, you’ll be my first passenger so you can find out for everyone else.”

“If I get into an accident I’ll sue you for real.”

“I’ll try not to, I don’t have a job anymore and I’m going to college soon so even if I do please be merciful I swear I have good intentions.”

“Pick me up tomorrow at 11 and I’ll give you a review,” he decides, handing over his phone with the contact ‘Sae Itoshi’ at the top of your phone and the name of a sports store sent to your conversation. You ponder for a moment about asking for a contact picture but you’d like to stay alive for at least one more day so you bid him farewell and sit back in the driver’s seat, hoping he doesn’t hate your taste in music when you turn the radio back on.

—

The Itoshi residence is rather normal, differing from your expectation of a lavish mansion with fountains and fences of gold, given that Sae was a famous athlete and his younger brother Rin was known throughout the prefecture for being a mini Sae. The previous night when you had just finished brushing your teeth, your phone screen illuminated with the presence of a new notification: a text from the older Itoshi.

>make sure you don’t have anything planned for tomorrow

>i’ll need to try each ball out

>you did this to yourself

>shitty driver

A jolt of pain had struck your pride, crumbling your ego at the realization that he was, unfortunately, right about needing to sacrifice your entire afternoon to babysit a (grown) stranger whom you haven’t talked to in years; those conversations were brief, lacking any substance to consider them actual conversations. For a moment, the thought of bailing on him had crossed your mind, the idea of leaving him stranded at his residence while you enjoyed a night in, marinating before a tumultuous college career seemed insatiably tempting. 

Disaster struck when you Googled Sae Itoshi’s net worth, his bank account leading you right to his front doorstep.

“Don’t get into any car accidents,” Sae told you as he dipped his head down to step into the passenger’s side of your car. You were suddenly struck with a moment of insecurity; a wealthy athlete who could probably buy your family and your ancestor’s mummified corpses is sitting in your car and is probably rich enough to get away with murdering you for having half a particle of dust fall onto his lap.

You realized you zoned out when Sae cleared his throat, blinking a few times at you with an unamused expression and eyebrows furrowed in judgment. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, man. Just trying to remember the name of the place you mentioned. It’s a technique I use where if I think really hard in the same place I was when I thought of that thought, that thought I had thought of can reappear in my thoughtless mind.” You aren’t sure if you understand what you’re saying but you think you can get away with spouting bullshit if you use enough hand movements like a person on TedTalk.

“What the actual fuck are you saying?” Sae doesn’t seem to believe you but you’re an innovator—you simplify the problem down to something the average person (underling) can understand. 

“Can you give me the address again..?”

“You’re a freak.”

Sae picks up your phone, which was opened to the navigator app, and quickly typed in the name of the sporting good’s shop he had mentioned the day before. It was a small place, smaller than you would expect a star athlete to go to for equipment but you suppose it makes sense at the same time: less people, less paparazzi, less crazed fans, and a selection of items picked specifically for trained athletes. 

“So, uh, are you gonna make me pay for the ball too ‘cause I’m at least, like, five yen in student loan debt,” you sheepishly ask, hoping Sae can appreciate your humility in being a college student, taking a step forward in life by pursuing a higher education. 

“How cheap are you?” Sae scoffs, letting out a sound that started off as half of a chuckle but ended as a constipated grunt, making him sound like a diseased lab-grown goat that was raised by war-stricken alien society. You think Sae should become an experimental musical artist if soccer doesn’t work out, sorta like a fucked up version of Björk who’s slightly less musically talented and a total cunt instead. 

“I’m not cheap! I’m just curious. I brought my credit card just in case. I’m a responsible adult; this is all for budgeting and logging my payments or whatever else people do to save money.”

“You’re lucky you’re funny,” Sae comments as if it’s the most nonchalant thing in the world. For you though, you almost stepped on the breaks and begged him to repeat what he said. It would have been just another condescending compliment from anyone else but Sae Itoshi is notorious for not humoring anyone in the media and you quickly realized, even those in real life. Before you could doubt your memory, Sae opens his mouth again. “You lucked out on pretty privilege. All the bullshit you say would not slide if it came from any other person. I’m convinced the only social experience you have is talking to a mud wall.”

Any negative statement he had made went through one ear and directly out the other, keeping only the compliments for your brain to process. Without noticing, a giddy smile appeared on your face and to Sae, it was wildly masochistic the way you tolerated his foul personality and even relishing in his attention—no matter good or bad. He could almost pity you, deducing your attitude as a lack of self respect, but you somehow manage to surprise him every time.

“Nah, I think I had a lot of friends. I don’t know if we were actually friends but I knew their names so it’s probably good enough. Speaking of, there was this guy named Kota who I knew when I was seven and he seemed pretty cool until I caught him picking at his feet in the middle of class. Sometimes I wonder how he’s doing and if he’s still collecting foot gunk. But yeah, I think you’re just self projecting with the whole ‘no people, only soccer’ thing and moving to Spain with zero spanish skills. Damn, wait, that’s kinda sad. Shit, now I feel bad,” you take a look at Sae, searching for any sort of discomfort or offense but he simply shrugged. 

“It’s whatever, they all bothered me anyways. I was there to play soccer, not make lifelong friends. It’s not like I’m gonna stay in Spain forever. I’m back in Japan to renew my passport ‘cause I know I’m gonna come back eventually.”

“You’ve already made a name for yourself and you’re making insane money that can last more than a lifetime for the average person once your contract is over. It’s not gonna be long before you get onto the Olympic team for Japan. When you do make it on, you better thank me for making sure you kept on playing by bringing you to buy a replacement for a ball I ran over.”

You drove into a parking lot with two other cars directly in front of the sports shop. The building was in the middle of a small plaza, adjacent to an udon shop and a bar. It was undoubtedly an odd place for a sports shop to be and that might have been what caught Sae’s eye in the first place. In the window display, a tennis racket and a pair of soccer cleats are put on display and on the glass door, countless advertisements for events and brands are taped on, each barely correlating to the others.

Right in the corner of the shop is the checkout where an elderly man sits, scribbling something in a beaten journal. There is a stack of newspapers behind him, every issue marked with highlighted annotations and then neatly folded as if it were untouched. Sae greeted the man and turned to find someone else, this time, being a younger man who appeared to be in his thirties or forties. He gave Sae a warm smile and shook his hand, not as a business partner, but as an acquaintance. 

It’s here that you realize you’ll never be able to see the world the way Sae does. In your car he was just another boy in your neighborhood that you decided to get to know. But to others, he was Sae Itoshi, a prodigy who could conquer the world with just himself and a pair of cleats. Although his eyes are dimmed and his apathy anything but silent, his shine was lost to know one and when he boards a plane back to Spain while you settle into college, you think you’d be content calling him a shooting star.

Sae notices that you stopped following him and turns around in confusion, tilting his head to motion you to follow him. It takes a breath before you put your hands in the pocket of your jacket and tentatively follow him. It wasn’t until you walked into the store that you truly realized how out of place you felt and if it were just you and Sae, you might’ve thought to ask him what everything did. He’d call you a dense fuck and tell you that he plays soccer, that he doesn’t deal with anything else. You had even the smallest bit of shame so you kept your mouth shut and continued to trail after him, stealing glances at the stacked shelves until the employee came to a halt.

Before you was a wall, lined with four shelves of nothing but soccer balls, each decorated with the signatures of different brands and their series’.

“The guy said I can try them out in the back.” Sae tapped your shoulder and grabbed onto the fabric of your jacket, dragging you with him like a pet cat. “They have a lot of empty space there. You can help me carry everything I want to try.”

Agreeing turned out to be a mistake. In your arms you struggled to carry six different balls, with Sae dribbling one between his feet as the owner of the stop unlocked the door to the back where Sae would be testing things out. You felt like an overworked butler from some bad comic and in your head, you imagined yourself as a fainting princess—a damsel in distress being overworked by the evil kingdom in which she is supposed to be respected.

“Stop being dramatic,” Sae sighed, noticing your dejected pout and lost eyes. He could almost pity you if you didn’t look comically pathetic in the moment, almost adorable if he wanted to be slightly sentimental. “You can put them all down now. Just sit here and wait. Take a nap or something, you’ll be fine.”

The lack of standards you have would be an issue to address at a later date because the barely comforting words of the ever eloquent motivational speaker Sae Itoshi had you immediately perking up and cheering for him.

“Go! Go! You got this! Get that goal, ugly!”

“Who are you calling ugly? I could knock you out with this ball, you know. If you want to be supportive, don't be a freak.”

“Are you really gonna disrespect the only fan you have at the moment? What if I tweet about this and get you canceled or some shit?”

“Do you really think I care about that?”

“...no…”

“...”

“...”

“Whatever. Do what you want.”

“Kick that ball, little boy! You’re a prodigy! Number one soccer player in the world! Bend that net over!”

—

By the time Sae had finished shooting several goals and alternating dribbling between them at least five times, the sun had set and your throat was sore from bullshit cheering, half of which were incoherent sounds of moral support. Sae grabbed an unopened box of the ball he had chosen and denied a pump when offered one. When he placed the cardboard packaging onto the checkout table, your wallet was in your hand and ready to check out and pay off your debt to the Itoshi. 

However, you were met with a receipt in your hand instead and a farewell from the owner, bidding you and Sae a happy rest of your day. You quickly turned your head toward Sae, mouth agape as your brain twitched, trying to process if he was fucking with you or not.

“Do you want me to pay you online or write a check or what? Wait, why did you pay? I thought I owed you it? My complaining earlier was all joking. I literally popped your old ball. The least I can do is pay for a new one!” You rant, quickly taking your phone out of your bag to open up your banking app but Sae was quicker to take your hand in his and bring it down to where it was before.

“And I was fucking with you too, dumbass. Or are you too stupid to remember back in the car how I didn’t respond to you asking if you needed to pay? Start listening, will you?”

“I think this is the meanest act of generosity I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m not being generous, I’m telling you that you owe me something else.”

“What the fuck?” You’re perplexed by the audacity of this man. You hope his athletic career flops and every brand deal that he has gotten offered drops him. “Are you gonna start charging me an insane amount of interest like a loan shark? Dude, aren’t you rich?”

“I’m not asking for money.”

“Then what is it?”

“Go on a date with me.”

“Are you being for real right now?” You’re still perplexed by the audacity of this man. You’re perplexed by how his words are chosen to form the most foul sentences with sweet meanings. You’re perplexed by how out of all who know him, and all whom he knows, he would take an interest in you. But you’re a selfish person—if Sae Itoshi is offering his beauty and his awful personality to you, then you’ll take it with all your heart. 

You move to Sae’s side, putting everything in your hands into your bag and intertwining your fingers with his, a dumb smile planted on your face. As you skip to the car and swing your hands between the two of you, Sae Itoshi’s grin is highlighted by the golden glow of the setting sun. 

He really can’t wait to come home.

[imaredshirt]

Give me a Stan who thinks Fiddleford doesn't know how to throw a punch, much less defend himself in a fight with your average goon, so one morning he takes it upon himself to show the nerd a few basic jabs and hooks and maybe an uppercut or two behind the cabin, because let's face it, there's gonna be a time when Stan can't be there to take a hit for the guy or defend his nerd butt. So he's gonna teach him some stuff for his own peace of mind.

Fiddleford just kind of genially goes along with it, following Stan around the back of the cabin and watching with hands on his hips and a smile as Stan gets into position.

"This is one of the most basic punches in the world, so pay attention, 'cause I'm not gonna show you again," Stan says, knees slightly bent and fists up.

Fidds nods. "You've got my full attention, Stanley."

Stan isn't sure if he's imagining the way Fidds is eyeing him up and down, but he automatically flexes his arms a little more than he needs to. Up ahead, Ford is sitting on a tree stump and taking samples of the air or something (Stan had stopped listening to Ford's explanation once his words went from interesting to Big Science Shit that Stanley Does NOT Care About) and he's watching them with this amused grin, rolling his eyes skyward when Stan won't stop flexing and showing his arms off.

Stan ignores him and rolls his shoulders before jabbing his fists forward in a quick one-two. "There - you catch that?"

Fidds has got his arms crossed now and gives Stan a thumbs up. "Sure did!"

"See, just like this," Stan says, and shows him again despite saying earlier that he wouldn't.

He shows him a few more punches, going over each one a couple times before telling the engineer to mirror him, even getting in close to adjust the guy's scrawny arms and balled fists. He's being real professional about it and everything and doesn't understand why Ford keeps grinning and shaking his head at them, which is making him a little incensed but he stamps it down because Fidds is watching him with this nerdy, dopey smile while letting himself be maneuvered around and he's gotta learn to defend himself 'cause Stan can't stand the thought of some jerkwad wiping that smile off the nerd's face.

"See," he says near the end of the lesson, tapping his fist right against Fidds’s chin. "Do it right and your fist'll hit right here."

Fidds tilts his head a fraction at the touch. "Well alright then, seems easy enough."

"Yeah, like I said, if you do it right. Gimme your hand-" he takes Fidds’s wrist and taps the guy's balled fist against his own stubbly jaw. "Right here. You got that?"

Fidds nods. "Sure do!"

"Good." Stan drops Fidds’s wrist and gets into position again. "Then come on - lay one on me."

Fidds pulls back and blinks at him. "Come again?"

"Hit me!" Stan taps his jaw. "Right here!"

The guy suddenly looks nervous and galnces over at Ford for help. "Hit you? Stanley, I don't think-"

This is what Stan means. Fidds isn't always gonna be able to look to him or Ford to save him. He gets this weird, uncomfortable feeling in his chest at the thought of Fidds facing off against some asshat on his own, and that alone is enough to keep him from letting the guys off easy, if only to get rid of the weird feeling. Maybe a bit selfish but he doesn't care.

"Ah, come on, one little punch ain't gonna hurt ya, Fidds."

"I'm not worried about me," Fidds says, and then frowns when Stan barks a laugh.

"You think you're gonna hurt ME?"

Fidds is still frowning when Ford calls over in an amused, warning tone, "This is not a good idea, Stanely!"

"Just worry about your air test or whatever and leave us alone," Stan calls back. Ford shrugs and scribbles something in his journal, and when Stan turns back to Fidds, Fidds is finally getting into position.

He looks unsure, watching Stan nervously as Stan stands before him with his arms crossed.

"Hey, not bad form - you ready?"

"Well, I suppose so," Fidds says, accent coming in a little thicker than before. "Stan, if you're sure, I should probably warn ya-"

"Don't tell me nothing, just punch me!"

Fidds presses his lips into a line and throws his fist - and jabs Stan on the chin just hard enough to tilt Stan's head half an inch to the side.

"That's it?" Stan guffaws and shakes his head. "That was barely a tap!"

"I don't wanna hurt ya!" Fidds says, sounding so conflicted that Stan gets this urge to pull him into a headlock and ruffle his hair and drive the worry away.

Instead he riles him up.

"Please," he says. "Fidds, look - one of these days I'm not gonna be there to take a hit for you, and then what're you gonna do? Just let some jerk punch ya around?"

Fidds looks slightly perplexed. "Where is this all comin from? No, Stanley, I am NOT gonna just let some jerk punch me around."

"Good! So you gotta learn to defend yourself!" Fidds still looks unsure, so Stan tries a different angle. "Okay, how 'bout this - what if some jerks are beating up on me and Ford, huh? You're just gonna let em?"

Fidds looks up. "What? No, I am not!"

"You're gonna defend us?"

"Dangnabbit, Stan - of course I am!"

"Not gonna let us get our teeth kicked out?"

"What!? No!"

"Then show me!" Stan slaps a hand against his own chin. "Right here, come on! I'm some jerk who just threw your friend Stan to the ground and I'm about to kick him in the gut, what're ya gonna-"

The blow lands hard. Stan's head jerks to the side and he's thrown off balance, and he sees actual stars before his vision clears again and he realizes he's crumpled on the ground. His head swims as hands pull him around onto his back.

"Mother o pearl!" Fidds gasps. He's got his hands on Stan's face, careful touch at complete odds with the punch he'd just landed in the same place. "Are you alright? I am so sorry! I hit ya and you weren't even ready and - you just got me so riled up and I tried to tell ya and I shoulda said earlier instead o just lettin ya show me all those moves, but I just wanted to, well - goddangit, Ford, this ain't funny."

Ford's laughing as he comes up behind them, looking down at where Stan is staring kinda dazedly up at Fidds, who's kneeling by his side in the cool grass. "We did try to tell him, Fiddleford."

"Tell me what?" Stan demands. His jaw is already aching but Fidds’s hands feel kinda good so he doesn't tell him to move.

"Fiddleford was a boxing champion back back in his hometown," Ford says.

Stan blinks. "Bwuh-?"

"Not much of a champion," Fidds says with a wince, but he's blushing a bit as he goes on, "It was never anythin official, but - well, I did win more than a few matches at some backyard parties, see, and - well, people usually don't think I got any hittin power or can defend myself, but my Ma's been all too happy to teach me since I was little, and-"

The guy's rambling, and Stan quits being able to understand what he's saying half way through cause the accent is coming in thick and Ford’s chuckling and standing there looking proud of his best friend and Stan’s a little worried that he's still jarred from the hit, cause when he looks at Fidds kneeling there, one hand one Stan's chest and the other bashfully rubbing his neck while he rambles on - he's still seeing stars.

Later, while Stan sits in the living room with an bag of ice in his jaw and Fiddleford sitting next to him, still rambling about all the times he'd knocked a few guys into the mud in some backcountry hoedown get-together or whatever, Stan can lean back and relax and grin, knowing Fidds is gonna be just fine.

He can't wait to teach him wrestling.

[doomdoomofdoom]

With the ongoing investigation into the CEO Killer, it's interesting to see how little people know about police investigations. Which is funny, because most of that stems from Copaganda and is now kinda biting the cops in the ass.

Semi-Educated rambles about copaganda and real procedures below the cut

I say semi-educated because I am writing a thesis paper on copaganda, but much more about the brutality aspects and not the crime solving ones. I did write a much less intense paper on that almost ten years ago, and presumably some things have changed. Take my "expertise" with a grain of salt.

The Copaganda Thing

Copaganda (Cop Propaganda) is basically what the name suggests. Anything that makes police look good. Social media posts about community outreach, the adorable little K-9 units, kneeling next to a protestor that you brutalize after the camera turns off. But the massive elephant in the room here are Cop Shows. There are literally too many for me to name. NCIS, Blue Bloods, True Detective, any of those weird "live" police shows, and yes, Brooklyn 99, too. These shows (often produced in cooperation with the police btw) serve to humanize cops and portray them as good, honest people, who maybe have to cross the line sometimes but it's always for a good reason and they're always right and save the day! The other half of it is vastly misrepresenting how (and if) crimes get solved.

Reality

Ripping this band-aid off first: Police are dogshit at solving crimes. There are aspects technically outside their control, like that only about half of all crimes (excluding murder) actually get reported to the police. (Based on comparing the 'Uniform Crime Reports' and the 'National Criminal Victimization Survey') But this also means that the Police Clearance rates are only half of what they calculate. Numbers get further skewed by not accounting for a lot of online crimes because the system hasn't caught up with like, the 90s. Anyway, for reported crimes, investigations will lead to an arrest in about 20-25% of cases. Three out of Four cases die without ever apprehending a suspect. (While there are ways to deal with a case without an arrest, ask yourself if you think that's likely in a system that measures success by arrest numbers) Conviction rates (which vary massively depending on crime) even out to about 4%, or 2% of total known crimes. (x) Worth noting: Generally, violent crimes have higher clearance and conviction rates. For murder, the conviction rate is around 60% while larceny-theft can dip below 1% of reported crimes. (It's generally assumed that the number of known and reported murders is the same, as the NCVS doesn't track it. Because murder victims are bad at filling out surveys.) To recap: Police solve about 4% of crimes reported to them. Meanwhile in your average cop show, you've got a success rate of about 100%. That's a stark difference, even if you take only murder rates of 60%. If you're an average citizen who's the victim of a crime, the most helpful thing the cops will do is file a report you can submit to your insurance.

Forensics & Procedures

I've seen these float around a bit and it's mildly ridiculous. Supposedly they've found a bottle and a protein bar of our killer and will be testing fingerprints and DNA. If those worked flawlessly, they still would only bring up results if the killer has been detained before. Databases of random civilian fingerprints/DNA samples are not kept by law enforcement. These analyses only work by having a point of comparison (and even then fingerprint analysis remains subjective), so they won't actually help finding the culprit, but they would be relevant to confirm the identity of an apprehended suspect and as evidence in an eventual trial. (There is also something called familial DNA which would work if they had a couple of relatives in the system, but that's both a flawed and incredibly time intensive approach. We're talking months of drawing family trees.) Also your average DNA test takes like 24 hours and fingerprint analysis is algorithmically supported now, but still mostly done manually. And both require a clear sample, so good luck with that. Fingerprint might as well be the clerk who sold the bottle. There's an infamous case of a serial killer whose DNA kept being found on crime scenes all Central Europe with no connection to each other. Turned out the Swabs were contaminated during production. There was no serial killer. Quickfire round of unrelated notes: 1) Lie detectors don't detect lies, they detect stress, anyone can trick one with some practice. the guy who popularized their use thought they could detect stress in plants too and that the plants could read his mind. 2) We're not actually sure if all fingerprints are completely unique. 3) Bite mark analysis is a pseudoscience that needs to be removed from criminal and legal proceedings asap. 4) Any algorithmic detections inherit the flaws of their human predecessors. Those are their training data. (That's also how they keep turning up racist)

And as a final note, it's common for the police to not share details on their ongoing investigations. That's just common sense. The only details that get released to the public are ones that could lead to direct hints or vague ones if there's a lot of public attention, to assure everyone there is progress. For similar reasons, while everyone and their grandma has put together the motive from the bullet casings, cops can't actually go out and confirm that. It's like how Bulbapedia has to say Flamigo appears to be based on a flamingo. Contrary to the cops, Bulbapedia does not have to carefully watch what data they release that might elicit more sympathy for Flamigo.

Why tho

So after literal decades of copaganda brainwashing, the public perception of crime and punishment is heavily skewed. We've been told over and over that cops can catch any criminal in a matter of a 60 minute episode, max. And that's by design. Aside from the image polishing, copaganda is a deterrent. If you're convinced you'll be caught after committing a crime, you wouldn't commit it, right? You don't wanna go to jail. And the bad guys always get what they deserve on TV, no matter how smart they are. You're not gonna risk that, are you?

That's why we keep using lie detectors, that's why the news are full of arrests being made constantly, that's why cop shows get so much support from the police. That's also why we keep pouring money into policing. Part of it, at least. We've built a police force that isn't about solving crimes. If that was priority, we'd invest more into forensics and labs to keep up with the demand of samples that need to be analyzed. Instead, we built a police force that gets new tech gadgets and military gear. It's an arms race against the general public that isn't even running. We take cops and we give them paranoia, weapons, justifications for violence, and targets to brutalize. I don't have to remind you of the riot gear and responses to peaceful protests. The police isn't your friend and helper. You must fear them. Fear their superior intellect, fear their crime solving abilities, fear the high tech arsenal at their disposal. Fear them so much, you won't even think of doing a crime unless you're rotten to the core. And if someone's rotten to the core, then surely the violence is justified.

But that's also why this guy in particular is so dangerous. They've built up this image of being near infallible (to anyone who never actually interacted with police proceedings, at least) and being able to stop any threat, catch any criminal. And yet, this guy shot someone in broad daylight, in the juristiction of the country's largest police department, and he's currently getting away with it.

[mantas-ray]

summary. viktor is distracting and you give him a taste of his own medicine

tags. gn!reader, academic rivals to ???, kissing, no smut. i’ve never written for vik so this is me pre-gaming for the request i got. constructive critisim is welcomed !

You’ve been staring at the 71 on the paper for the entire class, and your frown deepens each minute that ticks by. You can feel Viktor’s gaze on you as he periodically glances back. It irritates you further.

The bastard knew he got a better mark than you, judging by the grimace on your face. However, he isn’t aware that your grade is way worse than either of you expected. You are better than this. This was your best class. You’ve averaged in your 90s, never dipping below 80. It was your best class until Viktor decided to take the same course at the start of the new academic year.

When class is over, you crumble the offending test in your hand. It was his fault. The way his pretty eyes light up and the stupid smirk on his face when he one-ups you. It was all you thought about during the midterm. You refuse to blame yourself for your own thoughts.

The look he gave you before your last midterm has been stuck in your mind for the past few days. Viktor knows what he does to you. He had to. He’s intelligent, but so were you. There’s no way he didn’t like you at least a little. He enjoyed ‘annoying’ you. That’s what he likes to think it was. Viktor’s bothersome nature to you, since he thought of you as competition, was an excuse to get closer to you. Maybe it was delusional, but you think you were vigilant.

The lecture hall was almost empty, yet Viktor waited for you. You slung your bag over one of your shoulders as you approached him.

“You seem pleased with yourself,” you grumbled, and Viktor’s smirk widened.

“Why would I be?” he responds. You roll your eyes and give your paper ball to him. In return, he passes you his exam, pristine with only one fold. You open it, revealing a nearly perfect score — a 97. No way.

You look at him as he unravels the crumpled-up piece of paper, smoothing out the creases. His brows quirk in surprise at the mediocre mark, and you wince, definitely not your best work.

“This is your fault, you know,” you say, handing him his exam paper. “You’re distracting.”

“I fail to see how that’s my problem,” Viktor replies. You wanted simultaneously to throttle and kiss him.

You weren’t mad. You knew your head wasn’t in the game when you wrote that paper, but it didn’t hurt any less. It was still a decent mark, given the class’ average of 53. However, you weren’t slightly better than average. You were supposed to excel.

He gives you back yours, and you ball it up again, shoving it into the pocket of your uniform trousers. You intended to throw it out on your way to your next class, and coincidentally, Viktor had a midterm afterwards. It makes it all the more confusing why he’d wait for you if he had better matters to attend to.

“Why don’t I even the playing field?” you asked. You shuffled closer to him, but he didn’t back away; instead, he leaned closer as he supported himself on his cane. Your faces were mere inches apart.

Viktor was curious about what you meant by your words. However, he didn’t expect your lips to brush against his as you moved closer. Viktor’s eyes widen, yet he refuses to shift away. You took it as a sign and pressed your lips to his.

Viktor’s lashes flutter close, and his cane drops to the floor with a faint clack emanating throughout the empty lecture hall as he cups your face. You taste coffee on his tongue and desperation on his lips. The kiss was swift, ending as quickly as it happened, and weakly, he tried to chase you as you parted from him.

As you bend down to retrieve his fallen cane, Viktor tries to process the situation. His eyes follow your every move. If you planned to temporarily rewire his brain, you succeeded.

You return his cane to his grasp and walk to the exit of the room, your shoulder brushing against his as you call out, “Good luck in your midterm, Vik.”

[save-the-villainous-cat]

So what about a genius hero x street smart villain, maybe hero is a little awkward from being in the lab all the time but villain makes up for it by being able to pick up on hero’s body language? Kinda alone the lines of “they didn’t correct you to insult you, they were trying to be helpful”?

"Can you walk?"

"Y-yes, of course," the hero answered. But the villain wasn't fooled that easily. Obviously, they noticed the white-knuckled grip and the pale face. They noticed the unsteady gaze and the shaking hand. The five coffee mugs.

"I didn't bring you here to work yourself to death," the villain said. they crossed their arms in front of their chest, attempting to sound soothing.

It could be quite challenging to guess the hero's feelings. Kidnapping someone to work for them wasn't exactly...a promise for good cooperation. It wasn't ideal either but the villain barely knew what an Erlenmeyer flask was and they really needed the hero to research the disease.

"Being careless could cost you your life. This is pretty dangerous. If this virus can kill people with superpowers, I don't want to know what it can do to us."

"The average human immune system can destroy the virus, don't worry," the hero said. They closed their eyes and took in a deep breath. "People with superpowers are flawed, though. Their bodies need to come up with a lot of energy to conjure superpowers. Specialized cells create a nearly independent system on their own. But, you know, some parts of the body - of the vessel - don't get as much energy as they need. Organs are important, so...immune system it is. That's why a bunch of kids with superpowers die. There is barely any information on it yet, though."

"Do you need more...specimen?"

"No. No, I..." The hero pressed a palm against their temple. They looked angry, they looked frustrated. The villain supposed not getting proper sleep for days was an explanation for that.

"Okay, that's enough, I think."

"I am fine," the hero insisted.

"You are not fine." The villain took a step towards them. "I know you are working on this so you can find a way to kill supervillains, not superheroes. But right now the only person you are close to killing is yourself."

"What would you know about my work? I am fine, I am doing amazing."

The villain reached out to touch the hero's shoulder but the hero slapped their hand away weakly.

They knew the hero wasn't...particularly good with other people. Especially, when it came to work. For the most part, the villain understood why but they could barely understand why they insisted on working hard enough to forget basic self-care. It seemed like brilliance demanded stubborness.

"You're right. I don't know much about your work, but I do know a lot about behaviour. And your behaviour is unacceptable."

"Unacceptable? How dare-"

The villain grabbed their chin, shutting up the hero. They took a step forward, forcing the hero to press their lower back into the table.

The proximity surprised even the villain - they hadn't realised the hero was this close to the table.

And this close to the villain.

"Alright, listen," the villain said. Their voice was dangerously low. "Right now, I am your boss and you will do as I say. If I tell you to rest, you will rest. If I tell you to eat, you will eat. I don't care if you want to work 20 hours a day or if you want to finish one more test. I decide how much you work, got it?"

The villain's fingers dug into the hero's cheeks softly and they smiled when the hero frowned at that.

"You don't want me to start threatening you, do you?"

The hero rolled their eyes and then they just stared at the villain. Stared with those curious and tired eyes, as if the villain was another experiment they were interested in.

"You're actually quite adorable," the villain said. They squeezed the hero's cheeks again for good measure. "You can have my bed."

The villain let go of them and the hero blinked a few times. A soft blush decorated their face. And for some strange reason, the villain felt really warm and...satisfied inside.

"What about you?" the hero asked.

"I will take the couch."

"Absolutely not. Do you know how many bacteria colonies are on a couch?" They turned away from the villain and slowly started cleaning their workplace with shaky hands.

"Believe me, I will survive."

"Fine." The hero shrugged. "Your funeral."

"You're making this up, aren't ya?" The hero turned towards the villain again and even their ears had turned red.

"Do I look like I would lie about that sort of stuff?" they asked but they didn't meet the villain's eyes. It was quite funny but the villain didn't know if it was supposed to be a joke.

Usually, the hero only acted sassy when someone criticised their work, when they got annoyed or when they got embarrassed.

The villain guessed the latter was happening.

But whatever was the catalyst, it seemed like the hero was willing to rest and that was all the villain truly wanted.

"Ah, screw it." The villain waved with their hand, still smiling. "My bed is big enough for two, anyway."

"It, uh, better be."

[nyoomfruits]

osctober day twenty five

prompt: magic pairing: lando/oscar word count: 900w

Oscar’s got his magic pretty much under control now that he’s older. There were a few incidents, when he was a kid, that time he accidentally floated all the furniture in the classroom because he was so happy he got an A+ on a test, that time he made it rain inside for a whole day because his pet rabbit died. But it’s all good now. No more weird incidents. No more letting his emotions control his magic.

Until Lando Norris walks into the break room at work and Oscar’s magic promptly sets the microwave on fire.

“Uh,” Lando Norris says. “Is that normal?”

“No,” Oscar grits out through clenched teeth, desperately petting at the microwave with a tea towel to make it stop doing the fire thing. It’s magical fire, though, so it doesn’t really care much about the laws of nature. Or about embarrassing Oscar in front of his crush.

Lando started working for their Design department roughly eight months ago, right around the time Oscar and Lily had finally called it quits after months and months of pretending everything was still fine between them.

And so Oscar hadn’t paid attention much, at first. Too wrapped up in his own life problems. But then the pain of the break up faded into a dull ache and suddenly Lando was there, with his cute smile and his mesmerizing eyes and his half unbuttoned shirts and Oscar had fallen hook, line, sinker.

Which was fine. Not a problem at all. Oscar had crushes before. It’s fine.

But then his magic gets involved. And that’s when shit starts hitting the fan.

“Okay, no, fuck this,” Alex says, diving under his desk, as all the pens in the office fly up into the sky and start spelling out terms of endearment above Lando and Oscar’s head.

“Ah,” Oscar says.

“Uh,” Lando says, staring up, squinting to read what’s being spelled. “Honey cakes?”

Oscar frantically tries to get his heart rate back to a normal level. All Lando had done was ask him to borrow a pen, and then their hands had brushed when Oscar handed one to him. And now this.

“Sugarplum,” Lando says. “Well, at least they’re creative. Does this happen often?”

“NEVER,” Alex hollers from under the desk, just as Oscar says, “Oh, all the time. Average accounting bullshit, you know how it is.”

“Hm,” Lando says. “Cool. Maybe I should switch departments.”

“DON’T YOU DARE” Alex hollers. “It’s pretty boring, all things considered,” Oscar says.

“I mean, yeah, but you’re here, right? So can’t be that boring,” Lando says.

The pens explode in a cloud of rainbow colored heart shaped confetti. Alex’s scream can be heard three floors down.

--

“Hey,” Lando says, a few days later. “I think we should talk.”

Oscar winces. “Is this about the fridge?”

Lando raises an eyebrow. “No? What’s wrong with the fridge?”

The fridge is currently full of all of Lando’s favorite snacks. Every time someone puts their lunchbox in it just turns into a pouch of capri sun. They have yet to figure out a way to fix it. “Nothing, the fridge is fine.”

“Oookay,” Lando says, sitting down on Oscar’s desk. Behind him, a stack of quarterly reports Oscar had printed out earlier start folding themselves into heart shapes. “Anyway, not why I was here. I actually, uh. Wanted to ask you something?” He fidgets with his hands.

Oscar steels himself. This has to be about the magic thing. Lando’s had enough of all the insanity, wants him to stop. Wants him to never talk to him again. Oscar wonders if it would be expensive to move to Iceland. Or maybe he can just find a really big forest somewhere. Those exists, right? No one would ever have to see him again.

“Do you… Would you want to go out with me?” Lando asks, looking up genuinely nervous.

“What.” Oscar says. Behind Lando, the swarm of origami hearts freezes midair.

“Like, on a date?” He fidgets with his hands. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to! It’s just I would really like to and everyone keeps telling me to go for it, that it’s like, obvious or whatever, but. I don’t know. If you don’t want to. I know you just got out of a serious relationship and such.”

“That was months ago,” Oscar says. “I mean, Lily and me. That’s. That’s actually so not the point right now, I’m. You want to? Go on a date? With me?”

Lando smiles, even though it’s a little brittle, a little unsure. “I would, yeah.”

“Oh,” Oscar says, and then promptly leans forward to kiss Lando on the mouth.

It’s a bit inappropriate, maybe, but it’s not like there’s anyone actually currently in the office. It’s late, most of the lights are turned off, so it’s just Lando and Oscar and the hundreds of paper origami hearts that flutter around them like little butterflies as Oscar kisses Lando like a starving man.

And Lando responds in earnest, kisses him back just as urgently, like he’s been waiting for this moment, too. When they pull away, Oscar leans his forehead against Lando’s, lets out a disbelieving laugh. “I would love to go on a date with you.”

“Mint,” Lando says, beaming at him. And then, because he’s a little shit. “My sugarplum.”