#I need them to be as weird about each other as possible

[giurochedadomani]

I love the possibilities of mixing mishanks and the baratie. I also love the idea of mishanks being like, full on middle aged dads, but still behaving like teens around each other. And with that I mean that I want mishanks to end up having a whirlwind night in which 1) they get stood up by their dates, 2) reconnect with each other after years with no contact, 3) instead of dueling they. tear up the dance floor, 4) neither of them thinks about getting the other's contact before an abrupt end of the night. This last beat it's very important bc I also really like mishanks making their bullshit everyone's problem, and I'm laughing hard imagining Shanks' level of scheming to find out the contact of the hot goth he made out with the other night in his favourite shady bar-- only rivaled by Croc's own level of scheming about it, bc he *needs* to know who's making his (bestie) weird coworker drag them + the clown in all their beautiful corporate glory to the shadiest bar in town. also picture the face of horror of the insufferable regional manager! Buggy when he realizes that what he thought would be a good way to get into croc & Mihawk's good graces is going to mean playing matchmaker between the creepiest guy in his work place and (brotherly *ugh*) shanks.

[funkyplantguy]

cumbo. ough. they make me violent. idiots. I think one of them could be flirting in the most obnoxious entirely obvious way and the other would be sooo oblivious. Either of them could fill that role. Maybe they’re both doing it. They’re stupid. witness geminitay is in fucking shambles she hates them (she knows because grian was witnessing it first and he couldn’t do it alone he had to drag someone else into it) scar (violently aromantic but doesn’t know) thinks both cub and mumbo are being normal and he doesn’t understand why gem and grian are so dramatic. they r literally just awkward grian… you literally told me last week you wanted to elope that’s just what friends do. gem proceeds to beat grian to death with a shovel for not inviting her to the wedding. this is not a 200 word prompt sorry I’m a yapper. only important bit is the cumbo the rest is implied.

YES. yes. you get it. you Get It. they're both so fucking weird and Not Normal About Anything in the best possible way. i feel like they make each other SO much worse. you think you've seen cubfan135 be Weird? watch as i introduce the world's most wet cat of a man to the scene. it's autism x autism but like, slightly different flavors so it could either go so horribly wrong or they could end up making out sloppy style and i have personally decided that it's the latter. but yes i too love the highkey flirter x oblivious dumbass trope. big fan of the idea of cub trying to hit on mumbo SOOOOOO hard (in his own weird-ass way) and mumbo being truly so fucking unaware. like, painful levels of unawareness. everyone around him is .2 seconds away from strangling him at any given moment. gem and grian have already planted 37 tnt minecarts underneath his base for when they inevitably can't take it anymore and need to blow something up but luckily cub gives up and just straight up asks him if he wants to make out before they can pull the trigger anyway. please come yap in my asks (or dms) anytime you'd like. i too am a yapper and will talk your ear off about cumbo (or anything, honestly) for 7-9 business years

[mindful-mountaineer]

Humans Are Weird: Adrenaline

“I’m coming, Steve!”

“Adam, I’m okay. I swear, man.” Steve’s voice sounded like he was breathing much too hard.

Adam shook his head. “You are a filthy liar. Faradae?”

“He’s not looking too hot. I need to see what was sliced.” At least that human seemed to be logical.

Adam grunted and moved the rock even farther at Faradae’s words. He pulled harder, yelling as it slid across the terrain. 

Knycuz watched, stunned. He did not see how this was physically possible. Klyls were three times as strong as humans, and he could not move the rock.

But Adam managed to create a space large enough for him to crawl through. There were sounds of a slight struggle, a strangled noise, and then Adam emerged holding Steve in his arms.

Faradae followed them out, immediately kneeling to pull out items from his pack as Adam set Steve down. Faradae quickly ripped open Steve’s pants to clean the fluids off of his extremity. Adam stood over him the whole time, watching carefully, urging Steve to drink clear liquid.

“How is this possible?” Knycuz was looking at Kai next to him. “How could Adam move something I could not? I am stronger.”

“It’s called adrenaline. In some circumstances when we really need to be able to do things like lift heavy stuff, our body pumps out this chemical that can allow us to do impressive feats. Adam really cares about Steve. He needed to get to him. You tried, but you were not frantic. You did not need to get to Steve. Adam needed to, and his body supplied him the energy to do it.”

“Your body has the ability to perform these feats, but you can only access it in rare circumstances?”

Kai nodded. “Yeah. It’s usually to save ourselves or someone we care about.”

Knycuz nodded, too. It was quite an interesting way to respond to these situations. He continued to watch as Adam lifted Steve to his feet, carefully helping him to the carrier. Adam kept watching Steve in a way Knycuz had not observed humans look at each other before.

If you liked this excerpt, you’ll like the full story! Now updated and edited.

Humans Are Weird now out on Amazon! https://www.amazon.com/kindle-vella/story/B0DDG5C9Z8

And the first ten chapters are FREE!

[crossdressingdeath]

It's so weird to me seeing people insist that all Rooks are going to be the exact same with no real variation between them besides the names based on the fact that they all get involved with the Veilguard after prioritizing saving lives over their faction (if you look at the blurbs even the "they go against orders to save people" angle only applies to Thorne, the others didn't know or didn't have actual orders to go against, and even "prioritizing lives over their faction" doesn't apply to Mercar (going against slavers is kind of their job and the Shadow Dragons want them out of sight to protect them) or de Riva (they didn't actually know about the wider mission at stake and could easily have assumed that their superiors urging caution didn't mean letting civilians die)). For a few reasons, actually. First and most obviously... people are making a lot of assumptions based on the very brief and vague backstory overview you get at the start of the game. The character introductions we get at the start of the game have always been a brief overview with no emotional details; the details come in the game proper (which is also when Rook will I'm sure get the chance to discuss how they feel about their faction and the events that led to them leaving it; it's very strange to me that so many people seem convinced we won't get to make decisions about that based from what I've seen solely on the single paragraph of background information we get before the game even starts). Bioware didn't stop in the CC of DAO, DA2 or DAI to ask us exactly how our character felt about their background, they let us decide that for ourselves during the game, and I really don't understand why people are assuming it'll be different here.

Secondly it's based on a massively oversimplified view of what exactly happens in each backstory blurb. I mean there is of course the general setup of each character's background before the incident that led them to the Veilguard (do not come here and try to tell me that a baby found by the undead and raised by necromancers in Nevarra is the exact same as a kid raised by a military family in Tevinter, using the two whose childhoods we have any information on as an example; they are not the same and would have very different viewpoints on the world), but there's more to it. The actual incidents are quite different if you look at them beyond that basic "prioritized lives over the faction's best interests" angle! Aldwir choosing to give up a valuable artefact to save their teammates isn't the same as Thorne refusing to wait for reinforcements when a nearby village would be destroyed before they arrived, which isn't the same as Laidir pissing off the nobles and risking drawing the authorities' ire down on the Lords by killing a corrupt noble, which isn't the same as de Riva unknowingly compromising a larger mission by rescuing Antivan citizens taken captive by the Antaam. These are different events! Saying they're all the same is a very, very simplified read of them!

But I'm sure people will still argue that they're too similar because of that very simplified read. To that I say: every Warden is the exact same because they all get involved in a dangerous event and then get recruited by Duncan. Every Inquisitor is the exact same because they all go to the Conclave and pick up the Anchor. The details of their backgrounds and their thoughts on those backgrounds and their dialogue that's impacted by their backgrounds don't matter, the inciting incident is the same so clearly they're all the exact same character and the only things that change are names, classes and aesthetics.

...Stupid, right? Obviously if you boil down the protagonist of an RPG to the most basic description possible they're going to appear the same as every other possible protagonist of that RPG. The protagonist needs a plot hook to get them involved in the main story and that plot hook is always going to be similar to every other potential protagonist's plot hook. The Warden needs to be in a situation where they would get recruited by Duncan, and it makes for easier writing if that happens in a situation where there's a good chance they'd be grateful for it. The Inquisitor needs to get the Anchor. And in this game Rook needs to be in a position where their faction wants or needs them out of the way for whatever reason and Varric would want to take them for the Veilguard. With those two factors in mind, them putting innocent lives over their faction (for lack of a better way of putting it, see my comment on Mercar and de Riva in the first paragraph) is a good choice. It's something that ensures their faction will encourage or order them to join up and something that would encourage Varric to pick them! If you agree that it's stupid to claim all Wardens or Inquisitors are the exact same regardless of backstory because of the inciting incident that gets them into the plot (which I assume everyone does), then don't automatically assume that all Rooks are going to be the same because of their inciting incidents having some similarities.

[rogueddie]

Popstar Steve who gets strangely offended when the media accurately reports on how he and Robin are "just friends" and... yeah, they're not wrong, but they're both so tied at the hip, soulmates, connected in a way that's inescapable and irreversible...

He goes on a weird rant that people meme but the media starts calling Robin his sister. He'll take what he can get.

[necrotic-nephilim]

jealousy really is the driving force of DamiTim as a ship. love that for them. love how Tim has the Robin mantle ripped away from him and he has to suffer the jealousy of watching Dick and Damian bond. how possessive over Dick Tim can be, to have him stolen by Dick.

even more so though, is the jealousy from Damian. how on earth do you cope when you finally get to be Robin, a role you've convinced is your birthright, and no one really likes you? every prefers the Robin who came before you? Dick regularly reminds you that he can always go and call Tim back when you act out? like the complex Damian has over Tim is unreal. Tim, who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and had everything handed to him his whole life. he never had to struggle or fight for his place like Damian did. Damian has spent his whole life fighting and proving himself, and yet he can't ever seem to truly claw the mantle of Robin away from Tim. even when Tim lets it go, becomes Red Robin, they seem to share it. Tim can slip back into the role of Robin whenever someone like Dick or Bruce need him to, because *he's* the Robin who they need. he's the Robin who was able to find Bruce. he's the Robin that Ra's wants an heir out of. he's the Robin who even Jason respects. in Damian's eyes, everything Damian has fought tooth and nail for, was handed to Tim.

so of course he's going to react to Tim with violence and aggression, especially after finding out Tim has contingency plans for him. no matter how much Damian proves himself, he's never going to be enough, especially not to Tim. and so his deep refusal to see Tim as family, to acknowledge Tim's legacy is all driven by such an angry jealousy. Tim understands aspects of Bruce's legacy that Damian doesn't, like the need to sweet talk and play nice with the elites of Gotham, even if they're corrupt. they exemplify different aspects of Robin, and the aspects that Tim exemplifies are the aspects that Damian knows he'll never fully understand and therefore holds such a deep contempt for. he wants to fight criminals, not play nice with politicians. Tim understands the side of Gotham that's utterly foreign to Damian. if anything, he represents that side of Gotham, to Damian. a pretty little rich boy who's nothing but a know-it-all and not a real son of Bruce. he can't be a Wayne. he can't be Damian's family.

and all of that angry jealousy leading to unhealthy obsession turned a weird, angry crush from Damian is just my bread and butter. that is how DamiTim should be. to me. Damian obsessed over hating Tim Drake so much he accidentally ends up sort of in love with him and that only makes Damian angrier. because he can't prove everyone right by *also* liking Tim. he can't let Ra's win like that, because frankly why wouldn't Ra's be delighted by Damian and Tim getting together. and it builds and builds with angry passive aggression towards Tim that culminates in angry hate-fucking-that's-not-just-driven-by-hate. love and hate are always viewed as opposites in shipping and i think they're the same intense passion just in different directions. and for the best ships, they're very intertwined. what is DamiTim is not the peak of that. "i put so much of myself into hating you i had no choice but to fall in love with you somewhere along the way" core. love that bleeds into hate and hate that bleeds into love. "you make me so angry i regularly passively try to kill you but not with any real effort because who would i obsess over if you were actually gone" core. murder attempts as a form of courting. contingency plans to take each other out as a love language. they're unwell.

[thetarttfuldickhead]

It would never have happened if not for Dr. Fieldstone. Now, Leslie’s delighted about her joining the Richmond team on a more permanent basis – she works wonders with the lads (and one head coach who shall remain unnamed, if only because he’s still a little sensitive about seeing a therapist) – but it does mean that Leslie’s once more out of an office. Just for the moment, of course, until he can find a suitable space without kicking anyone else out of their room. It’s really no hassle. He’s doing fine on the bench just behind the recyling bins outside of the copy room.

Or he was, until Roy Kent stops by just on the other side of said bins and, seemingly entirely unaware of Leslie’s presence, starts fiddling with his phone in what can only be described as an angry way.

It’s Roy, so that’s nothing out of the ordinary, and Leslie’s just about to offer a friendly greeting when he hears the hollow rings of an outgoing call and ah, it’d be terribly rude interrupt, wouldn’t it? 

For a long moment there’s nothing but beep after beep and Roy’s muttered pick the fuck up you fucking prick and then—

“What the fuck do you want?” 

Jamie’s not on speaker, but the sound’s loud enough for Higgins to not only recognize the voice but to hear every word, and the jagged, slightly petulant edge to them. 

“Where the fuck are you?” Roy growls. 

“How’s that any of your business? Training’s fucking over for the day, Coach.” Spat, more or less.

“Don’t be a fucking— “ Roy cuts himself off. “I need to see you.”

“Why?” 

“Fucking hell! I wanted to… I want to fucking apologize, all right!” Roy sounds very, very annoyed about it.

“You can do that over phone. Or in a text.” Jamie sounds slightly less annoyed, but not by much.

Leslie dares crane his neck just so to sneak a peek at Roy’s face. Roy has closed his eyes, looking pained as he grits out a simple, strained: “No. I can’t.” 

“Why the fuck not?” 

Roy looks to the ceiling. Looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. Still he plods on, and Leslie feels a small surge of pity, small surge of pride. 

“Because you’ll want to hug me afterwards,” Roy says, “and you can’t fucking do that over phone, can you?” 

There’s a long pause. Leslie finds himself holding his breath, and not only because he’s halfway terrified he’ll start nervously gagging if this goes on for much longer. 

“Fine,” Jamie says eventually. “You can meet me back at my place in twenty.”

“Yeah, okay. Cheers.” 

A snort, somewhere between derisive and exasperated. “You better fucking hug me back.”

With that, Jamie hangs up. Roy takes a few deep breaths before stomping off and leaving Leslie to carefully consider what he’s overheard. Obviously something must have happened at training and if their head coach and star player have a proper falling out and Ted’s not there to talk some sense in them—

Eh. They’ll sort it out. Leslie returns to his e-mails.

[r-biter]

az for the character bingo. your relationship w him fascinates me

Put gently, i need him dead, but he IS like the most interestingly weird person in the IC likely.

[fettery-fetterie]

GIRL HELP WDYM I REACHED 30 TAGS??????? OMG???? I WASN'T EVEN DONE YET

ANYWAYS 31st: and that compared to a relationship where the communication lines are basically none or very fucking weak then yeah it is an upgrade I think. Idfk I was never in a relationship I'm just picking from the ones I've seen in my life

[hadesknockedupintheunderworld]

Just for your consideration, characters don't have to be siblings/family to each other to be able to participate in nonsexual/nonromantic intimacy.

[kaluawoo]

What is it about Servamp in particular that keeps giving me new rarepairs?? Like I have some in other fandoms but Servamp is unique in just how many.

[squareanon]

.

[knaveofmogadore]

Kfkdks

[a-most-beloved-fool]

I have no expectation that Spirk will be canon an any new trek (and frankly I don't think I'd even trust paramount to try), but I do still need them to make Kirk and Spock weird about each other. If they're not weird about each other, it ain't them.

Because they're so ridiculously devoted to one another, y'know? Devoted and, frankly, adoring. They like each other so much. They are each other's Most Important Person. That's just. canon. It's In The Text. There is no one like Jim Kirk for Spock, and no one like Spock for Jim Kirk. It is not possible for anyone else to fill that position in their lives.

They have got to let them be weird about each other.

[roturo]

⋆.˚⭒⋆.˚ WATCH IT!

Gojo Satoru didn't predicted this move... So he ended up fucking you lol ⋆⭒˚｡⋆ G!Satoru x afab!reader and sex pollen!

tags: smut, sex pollen, unprocteted sex (wrap it and pee after sex), overstimulation (like A LOT), use of nicknames (princess, baby, good boy, love...) multiple rounds, praise kink, angst if you squint your eyes till you cry like gojo, sub(ish)!gojo satoru, god complex, fluff if you take one eye out, crack, belly bulgde, creampie, breeding kink, crempie kink, A LOT of cum, dumbfication, cock warming, npr.

A/N: happy holidays! might be my last writing of the year so i wish you lots of love and happiness <3 i might write pt2 for this one and 'she's back', which one would you like first?

o(〃＾▽＾〃)o

DAY 1: HOW IT STARTED

How the fuck at his grown ass age Gojo Satoru could be this stupid. And that’s big coming from him, because this man considers himself the senior of seniors and god of gods. So, how come he falled into this?

And you know what? Maybe it is his fault! For believing he’s a superior and underestimating such a weak and useless curse he just killed. But, this weak and useless curse has him going crazy. That really was karma paying back to him because motherfucker- Why is he feeling all giddy and hot all of sudden? This has never happened to him before, so that’s why he’s losing his mind right now and almost sprinting into his room because of how bothered he was feeling to just teleport. 

Everything was like hell. Really, like hot as hell. And how does Satoru know that? Uh well, because he’s living it right now.

He couldn’t bear the sensation anymore and dialogue Shoko’s number like it was a habit.

“What do you want, Gojo? I’m in the middle of trying to know how Yuuji’s body is capable of being Sukuna’s vessel. Like- It’s quite important right now, and more than debating about some of your dumb tv shows you-”

Shoko’s voice was interrupted by a whine coming from Gojo’s line, seconds of silence continued the awkward moment between the both of them, while all Gojo could do was breathe and maintain his whines inside of his body before he started literally moaning.

“Are you okay, Gojo?...”

“Fuck, no. Some fucking curse sprayed me all over with some fucking stinky pollen. Didn’t even taste great, by the way. And now I'm just feeling really hot, sometimes dizzy… or kinda giddy? fuck. And my breathing became irregular. I’m fucking sprawled out in my bed trying to find a comfy position but my legs won’t cooperate.”

A loud laugh was heard coming from Shoko’s line. It was clear she’s been holding it all this time just trying to make sure she’s gettin it right.. and well. 

“Gojo.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you hard right now?”

Silence. 

“You know what? I’m sending Y/N over there with some medicine. You’ve been sprayed with sex pollen by the way.”

Sex- what?! 

Before he couldn’t even ask Shoko any question since she quickly hung up. Leaving a needy and confused (and hard) Gojo.

Knock. Knock. 

No answer, but a weird sounding moan? You gave yourself permission to enter Gojo’s room since no life signals were heard. But- holy fuck. Was this a reward or a punishment from the gods?

He was kneeled down on his bed, one of his hands used as a support placed in his bare calf while his other hand was as fast as possible jerking himself off. You stayed still some seconds before rewinding back to what Shoko told you before coming here.

“He might be another type… of… Gojo?... Anyways. He’ll be really needy and like a lost puppy looking for some salvation. I gave you this backpack with all you would need, yeah? Thank me later and good luck.”

So that’s why her flat ass was quickly sending you off with a backpack full of water bottles and snacks. Sex fucking pollen. Great.

It’s not like people don’t know that both of you have been crushing into each other lately, hell- even his newest student asked about this. But you never expected for it to be like this.

“G-Gojo…?”

Your voice was barely a whisper, but it’s like a hawk located his next prey because of how instant his reaction was just for your voice. A drunk smile on his face, while both of his hands fall infront of him trying to hide the act that was going on minutes ago. His sculptured white as snow body covered in a hot layer of sweat. Not being able to catch a breath thanks to this sight, somehow he’s in front of you. 

“Are you here to help me? Y/N?”

His voice sounded so different. But at the same time it was just Gojo.

A small nod was all the reaction he got. You could smell that sweaty smell, looking down you found yourself looking at a large wet spot staining his black briefs. While his cock does nothing to imagination, marking perfectly the shape of it. Moving your gaze to his v-line, a white happy trail proudly adorning it. Eyes moving up, you found yourself looking at his clearly erected nipples, But all this examination was over once he interrupted your thoughts.

“I need a verbal affirmation, princess”

Ah, the nicknames. If you weren’t wet by now, you’re pretty sure you’re leaking right now all because of him.

“Yes Satoru, I’ll help you.”

His knees felt weak. Literally. He kneeled down in front of you, it was like he hypnotized and somehow could smell through your body into emotions. His hands were cold but hot at the same time he roamed your body.

You tried warning him by calling his name while he started kissing the softness of your thighs, telling him to at least move you towards the bed. And his body was doing what you said like if you were controlling him, while his mind was somewhere else. He moved the both of you towards his bed, making you lie down. His head not wasting any second between your thighs until his nose touched where you needed him the most and you whimpered at the feeling. Clearly triggering a new kind of need inside Gojo.

Everything happened really fast. Between some kisses and moaning, Gojo ripped your shorts and pantoes a muffled noise coming out from him of what you suppose was “I’ll buy you new ones later” but right now you couldn’t care less.

Not when his tongue slowly started tracing the way from your entrance until it reached your core. Teasing it with kitten licks, while his hands remained on your hips from preventing moving them.

His tongue quickly found a rhythm between your entrance and your clit, forming infinite signs between them. And the simulation was too much you couldn’t notify Gojo about your orgasm- But he was so lost in the feeling of your thighs suffocating him and the taste of yourself in his lips, he swears he could die as a happy man right now.

And like it wasn’t enough, Gojo kept eating you out even after your intense orgasm. Overstimulation taking over your body, trying to take him off your core, ended up with annoyed groans coming out from him.

“Satoru, love, fuck. I need you to stop, please.”

The nickname had him exploding with happiness, he really looked like a puppy from this angle. His eyes looked ethereal, his mouth covered with your fluids and his face was with a cute smile while he called out your name.

“Will you please let me fuck you?”

A small giggle came out from your mouth, Gojo’s face looked a little sad and embarrassed, but was quickly erased when you pecked his lips. And that was all he needed to clumsily take off his briefs and while he climbed back to the bed, taking off your top while doing so. His eyes were full of adoration looking over your body, before he pressed his lips into yours, locking them for a long moment, clearly enjoying the moment, before the kiss turned more heated and he started kissing every part of your body again.

His tip was now wet thanks to your folds, Easily slipping through it. 

“Ffuck- Ssatoru- Be a good boy and put it in, please?”

Gojo needed no more words before thrusting his cock whole into you with one swift movement, hitting perfectly against that spongy spot that made you see stars. But something didn’t feel right. Not in a bad way. Since you re-opened your eyes to find a glassy eyed Satoru mumbling a lot of ´sorry’s´ while he kept thrusting.

Oh.

He came with just one thrust and was overstimulating himself, still rock hard with no break while he hid his face in the crook of your neck while marking it as his and tearing down from the pleasure. 

You’re pretty sure he came again, when he whimpered your name and moaned against your ear but still continued thrusting into you perfectly. And he was so lost in the pleasure of overstimulating himself he didn’t realize once he confessed to you.

“You’re so pretty- ffuck– I really want to make you mine now. So no one could look at you, not even in a friendly way. Just… have you all for me- sshit. I love you.”

You didn’t want to get your hopes up, thinking it was all because of the moment, so you just had to enjoy it for now. His thrusts were so  fast and hard, but somehow still felt romantic. Like this was a normal routine on a daily basis. And you would be disgusted by the pool of cum forming under the both of you if you weren’t so close to your third orgasm this night. No matter how many times you told Gojo to stop for a moment and take a break, he would cum again, and still be hard so he had to keep thrusting.

Your mind is lost now. All you could ever think about right now was Gojo Satoru and his immense cock. He wouldn’t stop mumbling praises to you, saying this was all for you to feel good and he would stop once you cum at least 3 times more than him. A hard dare to get over with. Or maybe it already happened?

You begged for mercy, not thinking he could get another orgasm out of you. Hell- to even get an orgasm out of him. His hands interweld into yours, and moved it down towards your tummy.

“Do you feel it, baby? I'm right here. Ahh~ I’m pretty sure my cum is there too heh. Your tummy is full of me and my cum.”

He sounded drunk. Like. Really drunk. But his words took off your last orgasm of the night, apparently your reaction making his trigger off and cum… dry?

How many fucking times did Gojo Satoru came inside you?

Will pills even prevent a pregnancy?

“Ah- shit baby.”

You couldn’t pay attention to him anymore, quickly slipping into dreamland. Gojo not once leaves your side. Literally. He was cock-warming, still hard, but no energy (and cum) to continue his misery.

You were here at 7.45 o’clock, one last look at the clock and it was 3.23 in the morning.

And it was like you just blinked, because a whimper came out of your mouth. Looking again into the clock, it was 10 AM, and Gojo was not over.

[euphoriaslux]

two’s a party.

summary: you recently transferred to stanford, and decide to tutor a tennis player in your class. he has a friend. severe indecency ensues.

word count: 3.3k

warnings : smut, threesomes, f!oral receiving, swearing, smoking, drinking. slight cuck energy if you squint (i’m sorry ((no i’m not))). no challengers spoilers!

a/n: this fic got away from me big time but this movie has rotted my brain and as a result i have written utter debauchery that i will not apologize for. just had to get this out of my head, enjoy!

-

stanford science hall. monday , march 3.

You swear the last thing you’ll hear before your body is lowered into your grave is the process of lactic acid breakdown.

It’s 2:30 PM. Kinesiology 189 with Professor Wilson, a lanky middle-aged man with a PhD in exercise science and a half-grown beard that you don’t think will ever fully grow in, is almost over. He’s teaching Extended Studies of the Human Body in a humid classroom filled with student-athletes, most of whom are trying to stay awake, trying to hide that they’re taking a nap, or making no attempt to hide that they’re on their phones. You don’t really blame any of them, because the professor’s voice is so soft and monotone that it feels like he’s begging everyone to pay attention to anything but him. You’ve managed to stay somewhat on course with the thread of today’s lecture, the notebook in front of you filled with scribbles of incomplete molecular structures and somewhat legible drawings of the muscular anatomy of a hamstring.

This class is required for your biology major since you’re on a pre-medicine track. You don’t know why you’re doing it, the whole doctor thing, but you’ve developed a weird fixation for this class. The functionality of the body, how muscles stretch and tear with each movement, and how amino acids work to build them back even bigger.

And, possibly because of the tennis player who sits four rows ahead of you every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

His last name is Donaldson. You know because of the faded label on the massive bag he throws on the floor every time he walks into class, at least ten minutes late with a backward Stanford Tennis cap on his head. His first name remains a mystery, partly because he never talks in class, and mainly because you’ve made no attempt to speak to him. You like to think it’s because you’re so focused on the curriculum.

Professor Wilson knows your name, though, since you’re in his office hours every Thursday at 11 A.M. In part because he gives out most of the answers to his homework, and because you just transferred to Stanford your last year and very desperately need a letter of recommendation for medical school. Hence why you agreed to tutor a student with lower than 60% in the class during one of your meetings. And why everyone in the class was staring at you right now.

“... first come first serve, so reach out to her sooner rather than later.”

You give a tight-lipped smile, glancing around the room. Most people have looked away, back to their distraction of choice, but you meet eyes with the fluffy blonde-haired tennis player.

stanford library. wednesday, march fifth.

It’s 11 A.M., and you feel like your brain is about to explode if you look at another practice set.

“Hey”.

Your head whips around to the harsh whisper, only to be met with the blue-eyed mystery from your class. He has that large bag slung over his shoulder, with the end of a tennis racket peeking out of it. His hair is slightly stuck to his face, and his compression tee is slick to his chest like a second skin.

“Hi,” you whisper back. He smiles before tossing his bag on the floor and sitting in the chair across from you, either unaware of or completely ignoring the glares he’s receiving from the other students studying.

“You know,” he pulls out some kind of nutrition bar from his bag, unwrapping it and taking an aggressive bite, “for someone advertising their services, you’re pretty hard to find.”

“You’re in Mr. Wilson’s class, right?” you ask, hoping your subdued voice will remind him that he’s in a notoriously quiet place. He hums, pointing at you with his half-eaten snack.

“And I’m trying not to fail, but you didn’t leave your number anywhere in the classroom, and you bolt after every class. So how am I supposed to patronize your tutoring services…” he trails off, his volume the same level as when he walked in. You furrow your brows as he leans back into the chair.

“That’s when you say who you are.”

You feel a burn on the back of your neck as you tell him your name. He glances down towards the problem set you’ve nearly finished.

“How do you turn in any of those, I can’t get halfway through one of them.”

You pause for a moment before leaning slightly across the table to whisper:

“This new weird thing called studying. I think it just got approved by the CDC.”

“Very funny,” he shakes his head as reaches for your binder with your class schedule printed out on the front of it.

“Why are you taking so many bio classes?”

“Because I’m a biology major,” you can’t help the sarcasm dripping from your voice, and he looks at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Sorry, you’re making this too easy for me,” you raise your hands in conceit.

“I have practice every day at five so you can tutor me for like an hour beforehand,” he says before standing up, crunching up the silver wrapper and stuffing it into the front pocket of his blue jeans. You scoff at his sentence.

“Well, thank you for so generously fitting me into your schedule,” you roll your eyes, turning the page in your textbook. He grins.

“Tell the coach you’re there for Art. They’ll let you through.”

stanford tennis courts. friday, march 7th.

It’s 4 PM, and the California sun is sweltering. Your shorts feel like they’ve become a part of your legs, and your bag feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. By the time you make it to the tennis courts Art is already on the green concrete, shirtless with beads of sweat dripping down his face and chest. You hear his grunts as he sprints across the court, hitting the ball toward a slightly taller brunette with dangerously short red shorts. You watch them at the entrance for a few minutes, slightly entranced as the two play so seamlessly, as if they know every move the other person is going to make. You force your eyes away as you walk up the bleachers, stepping over leftover water bottles and chip bags to sit down and grab your notes from your backpack. It takes a couple more minutes for Art to notice you, yelling your name after he turns around to grab a ball his partner had hit particularly hard. You wave, and he says something you can’t hear to the brunette before the two of them jog across the courts and up the stands to where you are, blocking the sun as the two stand side by side.

“Who’s your friend?” you ask as you stuff the problem set you were working on in between the pages of your notebook.

“I’m Patrick,” he says, with a toothy smile and his ears poking out from under his hair. He has a bit more of a boyish charm to him than Art does, whose eyes are glued to his brunette counterpart.

“Are you in Mr. Wilson’s class too?”

Patrick opens his mouth to answer but Art speaks first, slightly pushing his friend with his shoulder as he says “He doesn’t go to Stanford, too busy being a tennis pro.”

Patrick rolls his eyes but his smile doesn’t leave his face. You notice how different this Art feels from the one in the library, how direct his playfulness is and how close he and Patrick stand together, their sweaty torsos nearly melding together.

Interesting.

“Like, Andre Agassi level pro?” you smile as the two of them laugh. Patrick raises the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat off of his forehead, and you can’t help but take a glance at the exposed skin just above his waistband.

“Sorry, he’s like the only tennis player I know.”

“No, no I’m taking that as a compliment that you think I’m on the level of Agassi. No takebacks if you see me play,” Patrick points at you.

“Will do,” you salute, turning over to Art.

“You ready to study?” you ask him as he makes a comically loud groan, his head falling back. Patrick laughs, reaching over to ruffle his friends hair.

“You do remember that’s why I’m here, right? Midterms are in two weeks.”

“I definitely have not forgotten that.” he says. You purse your lips just as Patrick’s eyes seem to light up.

“I’m staying at the Courtyard Hotel for the weekend. You two can come over and study, I need to review my last match anyway. Kill two birds with one stone,” Patrick suggests.

“Just studying?”

“Just studying,” Art says, wrapping his arm around his friend's shoulder. You glance between the two of them, trying to decipher the unspoken communication they seem to be doing. But you can’t crack it, so you shrug.

“Sure.”

“Let us finish this set, and then you’ll have me all to yourself. Sound fair?”

“Wow, what a privilege. Don’t take too long, it’s hell on Earth out here!” you yell the last part as Art jogs down the steps and back down towards the net. You look up once you realize that the sun is still being blocked, and Patrick is still standing in front of you.

“You ever play?” he grins, flipping the tennis racket in his hand.

“Tennis? God, no, that would not be a pretty sight. I’ll stick to what I’m good at,” you gesture to the books and notes in your lap. Patrick nods.

“If you ever want to learn, I could teach you sometime, you know if-” he’s cut off by Art yelling his name, and you both glance to see him with his hands on his hips.

“Go, don’t keep your boyfriend waiting,” you wave him off, and you swear you can see him blushing. Must have been the glare.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder as he runs toward Art.

courtyard hotel. saturday, march 8.

It’s 11 pm. There’s a cold shiver in the elevator as you wait to get to the fourth floor, your tennis shoes tapping against the floor as one hand plays with the handle of the pack of beer in your hand while the other crumples and re-crumples the piece of paper with the hotel room number Patrick scribbled on it.

what are you doing?

You don’t have time to think about the consequences of your actions as the robotic voice signals that you’re on the fourth floor, the elevator doors fluttering open. It’s like your feet have a mind of their own, as you find yourself almost mindlessly wandering through the hotel halls until you’re planted in front of room 4B. You raise your hand to knock on the door but before you can make contact with the wood it’s thrust open, and Patrick is standing behind it. His dark hair is slightly tousled around his face, his striped shirt unbuttoned and his black boxer briefs low on his waist. He’s smiling, that same big smile as before, but his face is a little flushed, a gentle pink hue touching his cheeks. The two of you don’t say anything for a few seconds, as if you were both testing to see who would concede first to acknowledge the other’s presence. You raise the pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon in your right hand.

“I brought studying fuel.”

You were never good at waiting.

Patrick laughs before he moves slightly out of the way to allow you to walk into his room. It’s small, with a queen-sized bed and a tiny desk, and the A/C emits an odd rumbling sound as it smacks against the window. Clothes and scorecards are strewn across the floor, and the scent of cigarettes permeates the room. You place the alcohol on the floor before deciding to sit on the bed, kicking off your shoes as you cross your legs. Patrick seems to stall for a moment, smiling to himself before closing the door behind him. He doesn’t lock the door, but you didn’t notice.

“Art’s not here yet?” you ask, watching as Patrick walks over and tears open the cardboard case, cracking open a can. Taking a sip, he leans against the desk as he smiles.

“Art can be bad with time.”

“As I’ve noticed,” you reach your hand out to motion towards the drink and Patrick hands it to you, staring as you take a large sip.

“Well,” you wipe the side of your mouth, “I told him to bring the topics he wanted to study, so I guess we can’t do anything until he gets here.”

Patrick nods with a slight pout, his fingers playing with the pop tab of the can. “I guess we can’t.”

“How’s tennis… stuff,” you laugh as you finish the question, not sure of exactly what to say.

Patrick seems to tense a little at the mention of the sport, moving over to sit next to you on the bed. His knee grazes your leg and you feel a slight buzz at the contact as he takes the beer from your hand.

“I’m kinda fucking it up right now,” he says, and you furrow your brows.

“How? You were like, really good yesterday.”

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. He hands you the beer and you finish it off, placing the empty can at the bottom of your feet.

“I’m good with Art. It feels so fucking natural and easy with him. But in my other matches, I don’t know. I just … can’t replicate it.”

You nudge him with your leg.

“Sounds like you two were made to play tennis together.”

He makes a noise of agreement, his hands slowly moving to ghost over your thigh.

“You and Art are pretty close?” you ask as he plays with the bottom hem of your shorts, but he doesn’t say anything. You take his silence as a yes.

“Do you ever get jealous?”

“Of Art?” he asks, almost incredulously. You shrug.

“Yeah, or jealous of the girls he’s with. Either or.”

Patrick sits on that for a few moments before smirking.

“What’s mine is mine, and what’s his is mine.”

You laugh at that, a real deep laugh, and Patrick giggles next to you, the both of you tipsy from the can of beer you finished. You reach over and put your hand on his flushed face, rubbing your hand across his cheek.

“What were you doing before I came?” you feel his face warm even more against your skin as you position yourself closer to him.

“Practicing- or, sorry, rereading my scorecards from my last match.”

You tutted as you moved your hand to the back of his neck, gently running your hands through his hair.

“You can tell me the truth, Patrick.”

He turns his head to press a gentle kiss to the palm of your hand before looking up at you as if to check if that was too much. Whatever your expression is gives him the confidence to move down to your neck, his tongue licking your skin.

“I think you know.”

You feel a pull in your lower stomach at his words, muffled by his mouth nipping at the sensitive spot just below your ear, and he sucks hard enough for you to put your hand around on his face at the pressure. Pulling his face up, the two of you stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, and his eyes glance toward your lips. You wanted to wait, to make him beg and plead for it, but your body seemingly pulled you forward as your pressed your mouth onto his.

You were really quite bad at waiting.

He tastes like tobacco and faintly of the fruit medley in the dining hall, and you sigh as his lips interlock with yours and his hand grabs the back of your neck, pressing you into him. The kiss gets messy and hard, his tongue gliding over your bottom lip and into your mouth as you lift your leg to straddle Patrick, grinding into him. He whimpers into the kiss as his calloused hands drop down to the waistband of your shorts, hesitating for a moment before dropping his hand into your underwear. You grind just a little bit faster as his fingers press circles into your clit, covering your mouth with your hand as you moan.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as he uses his other hand to guide your hips, and your move your hands down to tug firmly on his hair. You can feel your climax building, the pressure in your stomach getting closer and closer to taking you over the edge-

You both jump at the sound of the hotel room dor slamming shut. Art is standing there, in that damn backward cap and a Stanford tee shirt as he crosses his arms over his chest, saying nothing as you and Patrick sit up straight, him adjusting his crotch and you smooth down your shirt, avoiding his gaze. Finally, the silence is broken by Art laughing.

“Christ, I’m not the cops,” he slips out of his slides as he waltzes over and opens a can of beer, drinking about half of it in one go. You look at him, and at Patrick, and then back at him, not knowing what the hell you just got yourself into.

“You want to fuck him right?” Art asks, and you can’t help your small gasp at how easily he said that. You glance at Patrick, hoping he’ll know what to say, but he’s just staring at Art.

“I-um,”

“So, no one’s stopping you,” Art cuts you off, taking a final swig of his beer and moving to stand directly in front of you. You open your mouth to try and explain, but before you can talk Patrick’s mouth is on yours again, his hand roaming your body. His grip is firmer now, his fingertips digging into the side of your stomach. He tugs at the bottom of your shirt and you separate, breathless as you pull your shirt over your head and toss it on the floor. Patrick’s mouth moves down to your neck, then your collarbones, and then your chest as he reaches around to take of your bra, and you feel on fire from Art’s gaze across the room. As Patrick kisses down your stomach and yanks down your shorts, you turn over to meet Art’s eyes.

“Come here.”

Whatever resolve Art was holding onto crumbles as he quickly takes off his shirt and slips out of his Nike shorts, tossing his hat on the dresser. In a flash Art’s hands are on your neck, tilting your head around to kiss you as Patrick lifts up your hips so he can take off your underwear. Art’s lips are softer than Patrick’s but he kisses you a little bit harder, his hand cupping the base of your neck. Somehow, they both taste the same. You moan into Art’s mouth as you feel Patrick’s tongue swirl around your clit, rolling your hips into his mouth as Art’s cock presses into your back. It’s just so much so fast, and that familiar buzz starts to pool in your lower stomach.

“Look at him,” Art turns your head to Patrick and you look into his eyes as you cum, Art’s hands hold your head forward as a wave of euphoria crashes over you. Patrick’s hands are digging into your hips as he stares up at you and Art. Your chest heaves up and down as you try to catch your breath, leaning against Art as Patrick leans back up, his mouth a few inches from yours.

“Who do you want first?